Origins
by Redbyrd
Summary: Hopefully an original take on how the Titans first met as teenagers and decided to form a crime fighting team.
1. Robin leaves Gotham

**Legal Disclaimer:** If they were mine I would have so much money that my hobbies would include skiing the Alps and catamaran sailing, not writing fanfiction.  
**Universe:** Fleshing out the cartoon canon some comic canon and some Batman and Justice League canon, too.  
**Timeline:** Before the 1st episode (_Divide and Conquer_)  
**Summary:** A story introducing the characters from the cartoon and showing how they first met as teenagers and leading up to the beginnings of the Teen Titans crime-fighting team.  
**Series:** Part 1 of a planned series.  
**Pairings:** none… yet  
**Content Disclaimer:** Nothing is sacred in the DC Comics universe, because there IS NO DC Comics universe. Anything is fair game. This fic is a blender of everything that has come before, cartoon and comic, for everything DC, in order to give plausibility, coherency, continuity, and integrity to the Teen Titans cartoon show. The authors' notes along the way should help those who don't know a Titan from an Outsider, etc.

* * *

_Gotham  
Fall _

Shots rang out loud and clear down the deserted alleyway and ricocheted off of steel and brick buildings. The chase had stretched on for blocks, the villains constantly assailing their pursuers with cascading barrages of automatic weapons fire. Yet their pursuers were relentless, and one by one the automatic weapons ran out of ammunition, forcing their owners to abandon them in the heat of the chase. By now there was just one armed assailant left, and he was currently firing a semi-automatic pistol side-armed in random intervals at his two pursuers, hoping to keep them at bay. Unfortunately for him, those pursuers had taken advantage of the drop-off in firepower and were now deathly close to catching him.

Unfortunately for them, that 'him' was the Joker, with at least half a clip left.

"They're gainin' on us, Mistah J!" Harley Quinn cried above the din as the Joker stumbled slightly from the kickback of a gunshot. Through the corner of his eye he spotted the Batman getting ready some toy or other that would most likely be a lot more fun himself than for his quarry. With no goons left the Joker was starting to get a bit nervous.

"Then why don't you deliver the package, Harley!" he growled in annoyance.

"_Oh_ yeah, Mistah J! I forgot!" Harley produced a pool ball-sized orb from somewhere unseen and lobbed it behind them. A clink and a hiss and then the alleyway filled with purple smoke. The Joker's maniacal laughter was heard over a sudden burst of gunfire as Batman quickly drew his cape across his face to protect himself from the gas, able only to hope that Robin had done the same. The gas dissipated after several seconds, but when it cleared it appeared as though the Joker and Harley had vanished.

Batman heard a noise behind him, and thinking that it meant the bad guys had slipped behind them he spun around—only to discover that the sound had an entirely different meaning. There was the Boy Wonder, lying in a heap on the damp alleyway pavement with his cape covering his face. His legs were bent awkwardly beneath him and crimson stains were rapidly spreading in rivulets that drained away down cobblestone channels.

Batman was instantly at his side. The cape was drawn back to reveal Robin's too-pale face. Mercifully or not, his eyes were still shielded by his mask. Batman paid little heed to Robin's face however; he was too busy taking in the sight of copious amounts of blood gushing from a bullet wound in his chest.

He was only caught staring for half a second. Blood gushing meant that Robin was still alive—and that meant that Batman had very little time. One strong hand ripped the costume open down the front as the other placed a gauze pad on the wound. This did nothing to ebb the blood flow and Batman added another, and then another, until his utility belt was empty of them. One hand applied pressure to the bandage while the other pressed a button on the belt. Seconds later the Batmobile's engine was heard revving down the alleyway, but Batman paid it no heed until he heard the screeching tires.

Batman was reaching for the medical kit even before the door had completely opened, and he was at Robin's side again a moment later. A pressure bandage was added on top of the soaked gauze, and Batman decidedly did not like the cool and clammy feel to Robin's skin.

Such contemplations were violently interrupted by the sound of sirens. He had just enough time to cut the rest of the costume off and stash it in the Batmobile before the squad cars arrived. He purposely did not look at Robin's face when he removed the mask.

Sirens drowned out all sounds save for screeching tires as squad cars blocked off both ends of the alley. Cops and EMTs swarmed the alley and descended upon Batman and the mostly naked Dick Grayson like vultures. Batman covered Grayson with his own cape and stood back, allowing the professionals to take it from there. Bodies swarmed Grayson, babbling in police officer and medical jargon. The cops were eventually shoved aside by the EMTs.

"Holy shit." Batman recognized that voice. Detective Harvey Bullock. "Ain't that Bruce Wayne's kid? Dickie something?"

"My God." Another voice. Commissioner Gordon. "What happened here?" Gordon barked to the frenzied crowd of civil servants.

That's when Batman reemerged from the shadows.

"I found him here like this," he said, no traces of emotion in his voice. "Whoever did this to him was scared off by the Joker and his goons." Over Gordon's shoulder he saw an EMT performing CPR on Grayson as a defibrillator was being prepared.

"You're likin' em younger, eh Bats?" Bullock sneered as he came to stand behind the commissioner. Gordon spun around angrily but Bullock merely shrugged, puffing his cigar. When Gordon turned back Batman had vanished.

From a rooftop, Batman was watching the proceedings below with a strange sense of surreal detachment. It may have been _Robin_ who was shot, but it was _Dick_ _Grayson_ who was dying. Bruce Wayne's eyes stared helplessly through the cowl and watched his ward be loaded into the back of the ambulance that had somehow found its way through the squad cars and into the alley. Another crime, another alleyway, another gunshot, another loved one and Bruce could only watch, powerless to prevent and unable to help in any way.

The cops collectively looked up as Batman suddenly swooped down upon them. The roof of the Bat-mobile slid back and he landed squarely in the driver's seat, only to shift into gear and speed out of the alley through the path that the ambulance had cleared.

* * *

Alfred was waiting in the Batcave when the Bat-mobile returned. The hatch popped open and Batman emerged only to stagger slightly and catch the side of the car with one hand for support. 

"Master Bruce!" Alfred dropped his teacup as he ran to Bruce's side a lot quicker than one would have guessed an elderly butler could move. He took in the bloodstained costume and lack of cape with healthy concern, his first instincts being to check for injuries.

"I'm fine, Alfred," Bruce said tiredly as he waved off his butler's attentions.

"But—" Alfred's protest was cut off by Bruce's procuring the torn and bloodied Robin costume from the Bat-mobile. "Good heavens…"

"They took him to the hospital. I don't know if he's dead or alive. Expect Gordon to drop by soon."

Alfred nodded gravely, lost for words, as he tried to decide what to do. "If Gordon's coming here," he said at length, being the voice of reason, "then we should get you cleaned up."

Bruce merely nodded. When he made no move towards the locker room Alfred merely reached out a hand. Bruce then seem to realize that this would require motion, and so slowly he walked towards Alfred, who fell into step behind him—far enough back to not be hovering yet close enough to catch him if he fell, and together they made their way towards the Batcave locker room.

Alfred saw that Bruce was indeed uninjured and allowed him the privacy of a shower, and while Bruce took considerably longer than normal, he reemerged looking a bit more like his usual self. Except for his eyes, which retained a haunted and detached look that sent shivers down Alfred's spine.

"One of us should wait for the commissioner," said Alfred, knowing full well that he would be the one to do so. Bruce nodded absently as he pulled on an old pair of sweats.

"Will you be alright if I went upstairs?" Alfred asked candidly, finally earning Bruce's full attention. Bruce nodded again, this time more deliberately. Alfred hesitated a fraction longer than he probably should have, but he did take his leave, and the Batman was left alone in his cave.

Eventually Bruce stood from the locker room bench he'd been sitting on, his bare feet plodding heavily on the cold concrete floor. When he made his way to the door, he noticed that Alfred had taken away the soiled costumes. With a heavy sigh he made his way back into the Batcave, not noticing his own breath as it fogged before his eyes, nor how the damp concrete floor made his toes numb. He found his way to his workstation only to find Robin's costume folded neatly next to the crime lab. However, fond thoughts of Alfred were quickly chased away by the reality of the situation.

Bruce sat in his chair and took the costume in his hands. He didn't need to run any tests on it; he knew _exactly_ what had happened. Absently he ran his fingers over the saturated material, feeling the difference in texture between the spots where the blood had dried and where it was still damp. Then suddenly his fingers found the bullet hole: right through the inside edge of the giant 'R'. The Joker couldn't have fired better had he actually been aiming. Bruce knew the human body well enough to know that at the very least the bullet had pierced a lung. At most…

"Master Bruce," Alfred's voice suddenly resounded across Wayne Manor and through the Batcave over the intercom system. "Commissioner Gordon is here to see you."

With a resigned sigh, Bruce set the costume aside and noticed as he stood that his hands were once again covered in blood. He felt his stomach lurch as he stumbled to the emergency wash basin next to the crime lab. He didn't notice the incredible heat of the water nor how fiercely he scrubbed his hands to be free of the stain. They were red and irritated when he finally made his way upstairs to the manor to deal with Commissioner Gordon.

"Is there something I can do for you, Commissioner?" Bruce Wayne asked as he entered the sitting room where waiting guests were kept. His casual and unaffected tone surprised even himself.

The commissioner ran a tired hand over his eyes. "I think you'd better sit down, Bruce."

Gordon's tone made Bruce's heart catch in his throat.

* * *

"The bullet did a lot of damage, Mr. Wayne," said the doctor. "It was touch-and-go there for a while, and he coded twice during the surgery. If you ask me, it's a miracle he survived at all." 

"Get to the point," Bruce interrupted with as much patience as he could muster.

The doctor sighed tiredly. "The bullet nicked the aorta and passed through his left lung, but we've managed to stabilize him now. He's still in critical condition, but he's a fighter, that one. I expect he'll pull through, but it's really up to him now."

Bruce nodded gravely, absorbing this information. He heard Alfred sigh in relief from a chair nearby.

"Can I see him?" Bruce asked expectantly.

The doctor hesitated briefly before nodding. "Sure. He's in the ICU right now. Take the elevator to the fifth floor and a nurse on duty will direct you."

"Thank you." Bruce began walking towards the elevators and Alfred rose to follow him.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said the doctor as he moved to stand in front of Alfred. "Only immediate family are allowed."

"But Alfred's as much an immediate family member as _I_ am," Bruce protested, fighting to keep his cool.

Alfred just shook his head. "It's all right Master Bruce. I'll just wait in the car."

Bruce could hear Alfred's repressed indignation only because of how long he's known him. He was about to protest further but Alfred smiled in reassurance and secretly Bruce was grateful for this chance to visit with Dick alone.

* * *

The elevator ride had to have been the longest twenty seconds of Bruce's life. Of course he only thought that _before_ the twenty-second walk from the receptionist's desk to Dick's room at the end of the hall. However, not one second of this seemingly monumental time span was enough to prepare him for what he saw when he entered the room. 

The beeping, whirring, and hissing were the first things he noticed. Dick was simply surrounded by different machines that Bruce took passing notice of as he approached the hospital bed. Dick was drawn and pale and almost sickly looking lying there, legs covered in hospital blankets and torso covered in bandages. Bruce knew that the doctors would have had to crack the entire left side of his ribcage in order to repair the damage behind it.

The next things he noticed were the tubes and wires. Both of his arms were connected at the hand and the inside of the elbow to various intravenous fluids bags at varying levels of fullness. A pulse-oximeter was secured to an index finger and the wires for other sensors snaked their way underneath the bandages.

The worst tube of all, however, was the respirator. A large blue hose ran from the hissing machine to a facemask that covered Dick's mouth and nose, and the slow and steady rise and fall of his chest coincided with the rhythm of noises from that singular machine. Analytically Bruce knew that the respirator would stay until Dick could breathe on his own, standard practice for a severe lung injury.

The worst of it was how young Dick looked lying there with the respirator mask dwarfing his face the way it was.

Bruce stood hovering at Dick's bedside for many moments, simply reveling in the telltale beep of the heart monitor. Then he tentatively reached out a hand, but Dick looked so fragile lying there that Bruce recoiled as if he were afraid that his mere touch would break him. The recoiled hand balled into a fist that shook with barely restrained fury. However, punching something in this room could have disastrous consequences and Bruce spun away in disgust. To release this tension he began pacing angrily. He had only made a few passes before his eyes drifted to the sight of Dick lying there, alive and breathing due only to the graces of God and machines, and all traces of anger left him. Dick was alive, and for right now that's all that mattered.

Bruce pulled a chair over from the side of the room and placed it by the bedside, already mentally preparing himself for the eventual fight he would have with the nursing staff because of this. Pushing those thoughts aside Bruce sat down heavily and slid forward enough so that he was within arm's reach of Dick. Then he carefully took Dick's hand in his own and marveled, noticing for the first time how much smaller Dick's hands were compared to his own. Bruce brought his other hand over and Dick's hand disappeared completely and thus the wait began; time was kept by the beeps, whirrs, and hisses as a single tear escape Bruce's control and trailed unhindered down his cheek to fall onto the woolen hospital blanket and disappear.

* * *

The next week or so was a blur for Bruce. Hundred-dollar bills shoved into the fists of nurses and attendants afforded him the luxury of declaring his own visiting hours, and the majority of those were spent in that very same chair in that exact same position. When he wasn't sitting, he was pacing, but towards the end he found that he didn't have the energy for pacing and so sitting he remained. 

He also spoke to Commissioner Gordon at some point, but the actual date and time will be forever lost to him. The commissioner said something about this probably being a mugging that was interrupted by the Joker's getaway down the alley. Dick would have been an appealing target with his designer clothes and expensive watch… Because even stupid criminals fear the Joker, and since it's a safe bet that Batman isn't far behind, the muggers must have shot Dick and left him for dead as they fled the scene just in time for the Dark Knight to arrive and save the boy's life.

Though Bruce didn't know it at the time, thankfully Alfred was busy behind the scenes, keeping the press at bay. However he managed it Bruce would probably never know, but all the newspapers released was "Ward of Bruce Wayne hospitalized after mugging," and it didn't even make the front page. Of course this was made easier by the fact that Dick was seventeen and still a legal minor, and somehow Alfred managed to prevent the tabloids from running with the story, not only to protect Robin's secret identity but also to keep those who routinely follow the society pages—people like Clark Kent and Oliver Queen—from getting wind of how close Dick had come to death.

Further proving his worth, at some point in the middle of Bruce's vigil Alfred dragged the exhausted billionaire from the Dick's bedside, half-asleep, and somehow managed to get him into the car and then into the manor and up to his bedroom. Bruce cursed when he  
next awoke and noticed the time—not that he would say anything to Alfred of course. And at least he managed to shower and shave before returning to the hospital.

When he got back he discovered that Dick had been removed from the respirator and was breathing on his own. For perhaps the first time since the deaths of his parents Bruce actually thanked God for something as he resumed his vigil by Dick's bedside.

Day after day this continued as Dick's vitals oh-so-gradually improved, and aside from that one time Bruce never left his side. Alfred made sure that ready stashes of bribe money were on hand to deal with the hospital staff and it was all he could do to convince Bruce to eat, winning that battle only when Bruce had just awakened from the abysmal visitors' chair catnaps he fought to avoid, when he was too groggy and angry with himself for falling asleep to complain.

Only later would Bruce realize that he never saw Leslie during this time, and once again he would have Alfred to thank for that. She was constantly updated on Dick's condition and paid her visit during Bruce's one enforced absence. As much as Alfred adored the doctor, he knew that putting her and Bruce in the same room together at a time like this would only lead to trouble. Her opinions of the 'night life' have never been secret, and regardless of how much Alfred shares them his first loyalties are to his boys, and right now Bruce didn't need any more reminders of how very much it was his fault that Dick was shot. Doubtless his thoughts were already tormented by that angle of the truth enough as it was, so any conversations on the subject could at least wait until Dick regains consciousness.

It was some time during the eleventh day after the shooting when Dick finally awoke. Bruce was holding his hand, absently tracing circles over the back of it with his thumb. The gesture had become more symbolic than practical for Bruce, as though without that contact—that link to the living world, Dick would just simply fade away. His exhaustion-fogged brain was focusing so intently on this concept that he didn't even notice Dick's awakening until he spoke.

"That tickles," came a hoarse croak from the bed, and Bruce dropped the hand as if burned when he nearly jumped out of his skin. Dick looked up at him with tired, glassy eyes, but Bruce was momentarily too overwhelmed to speak. "You look like Hell."

* * *

Dick was supposed to remain in the hospital for two more weeks at least, but Bruce finagled to have him released a week sooner due to the adequacy of Alfred's medical training as vouched for by Dr. Leslie Thompkins. Dick's bedroom at the manor was converted: a hospital bed in place of his own four-poster, and machines and IV stands were part of the deal as well. But at least Dick could wear his own pajamas, sleep on his own sheets with his own blankets, and have Alfred tend his needs and cook his meals. 

Over the course of the next two weeks the machines and IVs gradually dwindled. Finally there were no machines and only one IV to keep Dick hydrated and to finish the rigorous course of antibiotics prescribed for him. During this time he was confined to his bed. Not that he would ever admit it, but Bruce's threats of the measures he would take to ensure that he stayed there were nothing compared to Alfred's simple statement of 'stay in bed or else.'

Leslie would visit once daily to check Dick's progress, usually around lunchtime. Somehow Bruce always managed to have "just stepped out" whenever she arrived. Leslie knew she was being avoided, but Alfred's point that he had missed quite a lot of Wayne Enterprises business while sitting day and night at Dick's sickbed was a valid one and one that Dick would have accepted without question.

Dick, of course, knew nothing of this. In the beginning the drugs kept him mostly out of it, and even when his dependence on them tapered he still spent most of his time sleeping, as his body was no way near recovered from the trauma. And of course all three adults were exceptionally careful not to say anything to or around Dick that might upset him.

Therefore the biggest problem Dick faced in the early stages of recovery... was boredom. To ease the 'pain' while Dick was still bedridden Bruce moved the entire DVD collection to Dick's room, just in case there was something he owned that would catch Dick's fancy. What Dick suggested that they didn't have Bruce went out and bought. When they weren't watching mindless action films, _Knight Rider_ reruns, or _CSI_ marathons Dick would turn on the puppy dog eyes and get Alfred to read to him like during his first year at the manor when he came down with the chicken pox. Dick heard the entirety of _Sherlock Holmes_ in a soothing British accent but had to turn down Bruce's suggestion that he and Alfred start on the Shakespeare collection by acting out the plays due to the claim that laughing still hurt too much.

The charade that all was well was easy to maintain when Dick was heavily medicated.

It was only when the last IV had been removed and the hospital bed replaced that Leslie's daily visits were no longer required. Dick had also regained much of his mental stamina. He could stay awake for entire movies and have long, thoughtful conversations with people without getting exhausted.

"What are you going to do?" Leslie asked Alfred quite plainly as he showed her to the door after her last visit.

"That's hardly up to me," Alfred replied just as plainly.

"I wish Bruce would stop avoiding me," Leslie lamented.

"He most likely fears your condemnation," said Alfred in all honesty.

Leslie sighed and shook her head. "You all know where I stand on the issue," she said. "But my opinion has never mattered all that much before."

"Oh quite the contrary," Alfred corrected. "Your opinions matter to him a great deal."

"Just not enough to change his mind."

Alfred was quiet for a moment, his expression slowly turning sad. "Opinions have never been enough to sway Master Bruce," he said gravely. "It has always been tragic events that are proven to be the most effective."

"That's why I want to see him," Leslie informed him. "I need to know that _he's_ okay, too."

Alfred's expression softened and he managed a smile for the woman who had helped him raise a son that was never really theirs.

"It's not that he's reluctant to discuss the issue with you again."

"What is it then?"

The smile fled as Alfred's sadness returned. "He doesn't know how to face you," he confessed, "knowing that you may have proven him wrong."

* * *

As Dick continued to improve he noticed that he stopped seeing Bruce between sunset and dawn. Bruce and Alfred would always eat dinner in Dick's room and then Alfred would leave to do the dishes. Only now Bruce was leaving too, and Dick wouldn't see him again until the next morning for breakfast. The overly cheerful smile that Bruce donned during breakfast couldn't hide the growing dark circles beneath his eyes as the days stretched into weeks. Some days Dick wouldn't see Bruce until well into the afternoon after he would excuse himself from breakfast. They would spend the afternoons together and then Bruce would leave again after dinner. 

Dick knew that Bruce was sleeping during the day, and he knew that it meant he had gone back to being Batman at night. Part of Dick was touched that Bruce waited until all traces of his injury were hidden from view before he returned to 'the night life' while another part of him selfishly wished that Bruce would stay for Alfred's bedtime stories again, and still another part wanted desperately to get out of bed and rejoin his crime-fighting partner in the good fight. Most of all, it motivated Dick to speed along his recovery.

After a few days of only being allowed out of bed to use the bathroom (which was a major improvement over the prior arrangements of course) Dick was finally granted the luxury of a bath—in his swim trunks with Alfred waiting out of sight to supervise. It was his reward for suffering through the removal of his stitches. That night at dinner Bruce commented on the improved smell in Dick's room, which earned him a pillow thrown at his head, which he easily ducked.

A few days and another bath later and Dick was at last permitted to go on short, supervised walks. These he took with Bruce, not because Alfred was needed to freshen Dick's room whilst he was gone, as per the claim, but because Bruce trusted no one's reflexes but his own for this task, not even Alfred's.

For the most part those reflexes weren't needed. Dick only stumbled a few times in the beginning as his legs got used to bearing his weight again. Of course, Dick weighed a good thirty pounds less than he did before the shooting, and to Bruce he looked entirely too thin even now, having gained ten of those pounds back. These thoughts he kept to himself, however.

Just like all the rest.

Now was not the time.

By the end of the next week Dick was walking the entirety of the second floor of the manor unaided, though Bruce did remain close at hand. Dick thought he was ready to tackle a flight of stairs, but Bruce assured him that he wasn't. When Dick protested Bruce simply stated that if he collapsed from exhaustion he would have to be carried all the way back to his room, and this threat silenced all further protests.

* * *

Throughout this long road to recovery Dick paid close attention to Alfred and Bruce, mostly to keep his mind active while his body struggled to regain what was lost. Alfred was the same old Alfred for the most part, though Dick was sure there were a few more white hairs than before. However, he did get the distinct impression that much of the atmosphere was forced, especially when he and Bruce would leave after dinner. It lent the aura of parents not wanting to fight in front of the children and Dick got the distinct impression that there was something they weren't telling him. 

Then there was Bruce.

Bruce was, well… Bruce was Bruce. Though never an openly affectionate man—actually, never an open man, _period_, Dick knew that his legal guardian cared greatly for him through the little things—actions that went without words. The way he would listen with interest as Dick described something he learned on the Discovery Channel, the way he would hover yet still give space during their morning walks, the way he seemed more than willing to accommodate Dick's every need or even whim. A softly spoken man of loudly speaking actions, that was the Bruce Dick knew and these past weeks he fit that bill to a tee.

And yet…

Yet…

There were the increasing dark circles beneath his eyes, and the seeming regularity that he wore a five o'clock shadow. These things were never common. The first time Dick tried the stairs and stumbled he found Bruce's strong arms supporting him so that he didn't fall. He removed his hands not a moment after he was confident that Dick had regained his balance, but Dick got a good, long look at those hands. They were red and puffy in the telltale places. He was wearing the Batman gloves for too long, or he was hitting things a lot harder or more often than he used to—or all of the above.

And he wasn't getting enough sleep, either. They would spend the evening together from whenever Bruce woke up (not that he was told that of course), and then dinner would be served and then Batman would walk the night until dawn most likely. That would give him enough time to shower and change and care for the equipment before having to be ready for breakfast, immediately after which he would take Dick for a walk. When Dick was back in bed resting Bruce would head to his desk in the study for office email and teleconferencing until finally going to bed around noon.

Dick did the math. On a good day, Bruce would get five hours of sleep. On most days it was barely four, and on some…

Dick couldn't ignore the tired tone of Bruce's voice that gleefully masqueraded as patience, the same as he couldn't ignore the irritation of Bruce's hands nor the bags beneath his eyes, and then there was the occasional limp or muscle to be favored. And yet he never said a word—not that he was in the habit of complaining anyway. And neither did Alfred, which was odd considering he would often inform Robin of his concerns for Batman, clandestinely of course, so that the trusty sidekick could know about any injury or ailment the hero had so skillfully kept hidden. In Alfred's mind, it wasn't betrayal if it could save a person's life. Dick did contemplate that because he wasn't currently riding with Batman that Alfred decided that he didn't have a need to know, but still…

It was during their nightly reading; Alfred had just finished a chapter of The Three Musketeers when Dick decided to confront the issue.

"He's going after the Joker, isn't he," Dick said, almost passively even though it wasn't a question.

Alfred was silent for a long moment. Then: "I wouldn't know, Master Dick. I'm hardly out there with him." The amusement and dismissal in Alfred's tone was betrayed by the pained look nearly concealed in his eyes. Alfred then closed the book on the bookmark and set it aside. It was a bit earlier than they usually finished, and Dick noticed.

"I want to step up my physical therapy tomorrow."

Alfred sighed as he stood from his chair. "I'll take it up with Master Bruce," he promised, resignation in his voice. Dick didn't know if that was from their conversation or from something else entirely. "Get some rest."

The next day Dick started a rudimentary regime of physical therapy. Bruce approved the idea of Dick running through some basic stretches with the concept that once his muscles were a bit stronger more strenuous and involved exercises would be added. Two weeks later and Dick was swimming slow and careful laps in the indoor pool with supervision. When at Thanksgiving Dick could barely make it to the dining room and back on his own, by Christmas he was able to walk anywhere in the manor unaided. His strength, speed, and endurance weren't where they should be, but progress was being made that was satisfactory to all.

Soon enough Dick was lifting weights and going on longer and longer walks. By the end of January he (usually) wouldn't have to take naps in the middle of the day. He could by no means keep the kind of hours he was used to, but staying awake from breakfast through dinner and sometimes a little later helped to return a sense of normalcy to his life that had been lacking these past months.

Neither Bruce nor Alfred were willing to let Dick exercise unsupervised. Usually Alfred would be sitting in a chair reading The London Times, which Bruce would import for him, while Dick would walk, or swim, or stretch. Sometimes though Bruce would join him, usually in the hours just before dinner. He would run through a kata or skip rope while Dick was stretching and working on his flexibility, but would drop everything to spot if Dick wanted to lift weights or take a dip in the pool. Usually these times were spent in comfortable silence, each simply working on his own craft.

For them, silence had always been more comfortable than conversation.

Then one day in mid February Dick woke up at 8:25 for an 8:00 breakfast. He was surprised when he noticed the time not because he had overslept but because Alfred hadn't woken him up to eat yet. Alfred keeps a tight ship and meals are generally served with the chimes of the clock, yet even Alfred is human and late meals due to a kitchen emergency, while rare, have occurred before. Yet if that was the case, then where was Bruce?

Dick wasn't admitting to himself that he was worried. Bruce was probably helping Alfred clean up the giant mess in the kitchen, which probably had Alfred more exasperated than anything else. So, claiming that he was simply curious (and hungry), Dick crawled out of bed and grabbed his bathrobe, intending on making his way down to the kitchen to laugh hysterically at the sight of Bruce and Alfred covered in pancake batter.

Except when he got there the kitchen was empty. What's more, it appeared as though nothing in the kitchen had been used at all.

That sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that Dick refused to acknowledge made him leave the kitchen and head for the Batcave. It was extremely rare that he and Bruce would be out this late, but once in a blue moon it had been known to happen.

When Dick got to the Batcave he found Alfred sitting in the workstation chair reading a book. The Batmobile was nowhere to be found.

"Alfred?"

The butler startled, either because he was lost in the book or lost in thought, but he hadn't heard Dick's entry.

"Master Dick, what are you doing out of bed this early?" He then noticed that Dick had entered the Batcave in boxers and a loosely tied bathrobe with nothing on his feet. "Good heavens, are you trying to make yourself sick?"

Dick laughed dismissively. "Between Bruce's hovering and your mother-henning no illness would have the nerve to get within a hundred feet of me," he joked.

Alfred was not amused.

"Besides," he amended quickly, "it's after half passed already."

Disbelieving, Alfred glanced at the clock on the workstation. "Good heavens…"

That sinking feeling in Dick's stomach kicked him from the inside out. They were never gone this late without checking in with Alfred.

"You don't think—" Dick was cut off by the sudden opening of the Batcave garage door. The Batmobile drove in and parked in its usual spot. Both Dick and Alfred held their breath as the hatch opened. Much to their relief Batman stepped out of the car, exhausted but seemingly uninjured.

"I hope you brought takeout," Dick called out, masking his relief with humor.

Bruce just grunted as he heavily shut the door. Alfred stepped forward and took the cape and cowl from him when he took them off. Dick saw him gingerly lick at a slightly swollen lip. Bruce didn't acknowledge either of them as he made his way into the locker room. The two exchanged bemused glances as they heard the sudden sound of rushing water.

"Well, I have laundry to see to," said Alfred as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "Breakfast will be at ten."

Dick just shook his head as Alfred left the Batcave carrying Batman's costume. Alfred had already made it through the door when Dick snapped out of his mini-trance and moved to follow. That's when he noticed the small blood splatters trailing after Alfred that must have dripped from the costume.

Curious more than concerned, Dick grabbed a sample kit from the crime lab. He then painstakingly collected enough blood from the larger of the splatter marks to run a DNA test. Then, with the computer running the necessary permutations, Dick wandered over to the coffee machine and fired it up. He had nothing to do now but wait.

By the time Bruce was done showering, Dick was seated at the workstation with the chair facing outwards. He had a cup of coffee in one hand with another still steaming on the desk beside him, prepared the way Bruce likes it. Bruce was greeted with the strong scent of Columbian Roast when he exited the locker room. He followed the scent to the workstation and saw Dick sitting patiently, waiting for him.

"Rough night?" Dick asked casually as he handed Bruce his coffee.

Bruce nodded with a non-committal grunt as he accepted the cup. He took as long a draught as the heat of the coffee would permit.

"Thanks," he said, letting himself saver the good taste of strong coffee.

"Did Biff Stanwell have a rougher night?" Dick asked when Bruce was taking his next sip.

Bruce looked up, confused.

"You know, the perp you beat to a bloody pulp this evening."

Bruce lowered the coffee cup from his lips slowly as he gave Dick a critical gaze.

"Along with Joey Stallone and David Kanin."

Bruce put the entire cup and saucer back on the desk and stood up straighter.

"Kanin was the Joker's go-to man, wasn't he?"

"Both the Joker and Harley Quinn are back in Arkham," Bruce declared, his voice low and resonating of Batman in one of his moodier moods.

"And you delivered them personally?" Dick asked, his tone as casual and conversational as ever.

Bruce's lack of response was response enough. Usually the police would arrive in time to take Gotham's more eccentric bunch off their hands just as the fun had ended.

"They're back in Arkham where they belong," Bruce said eventually, still using the voice.

"And the goons?" Dick persisted. "Did they wind up in Arkham too?"

"The cops took care of them."

"Cops, or coroners?"

"I'm going to take an aspirin," Bruce said dismissively after a moment as he began walking away—passed the shelf that contained the first aide supplies.

"Bruce?" Dick spun in his chair and called after him.

"Thanks for the coffee."

Dick only watched as Bruce exited the Batcave. Then with a resigned air he stood from the chair and cleaned up the coffee cups, not wanting to trouble Alfred further. That being done he too headed upstairs. He needed a shower himself, and it never hurts to be dressed for breakfast.

Breakfast was taken in the kitchen in a silence more strained than comfortable. Alfred tried for small talk but Bruce was too tired to engage and too irritable to care much for conversation anyway. Dick tried his best but he was yawning before breakfast ended.

"Perhaps you should take a nap, Master Dick," Alfred directed. "You've had a busy morning."

"I don't need a nap," He protested through another yawn. Both Bruce and Alfred gave amusingly disbelieving looks and Dick muttered something under his breath.

"Don't let me sleep too long," he directed. "I still want to swim a few laps this afternoon."

Bruce watched Dick's retreat from his spot at the table. Alfred began clearing the table as soon as he had gone.

"You shouldn't have let him stay in the Batcave," Bruce admonished, slight dejection coloring his tired voice.

"What was I to tell him?" Alfred asked. "That he had no place there?"

"He ran a DNA analysis on the bloodstains from the bat costume," Bruce informed him. "I don't think he did it out of any concern for me."

Alfred took his time to answer, shoving away his immediate response to that statement. "He's already deduced that you've been… hunting," he said carefully.

Bruce didn't seem surprised. "He's a smart kid."

"He's no longer a kid, Bruce," said Alfred weightily.

A heavy silence.

"I know," Bruce finally admitted, quietly, his voice pained.

That night after dinner Dick was going to retire to his room for a bit of reading, but Bruce surprised him with the offer for a chess match. The two of them sat opposite each other, Bruce playing black and Dick manning white. Both were staring intently at the finely carved marble pieces.

"Check," Dick moved his queen into a threatening position.

Bruce blocked with a pawn. "I see you've finally read those chess books I gave you," he observed.

"What else is a person to do when confined to bed for months at a time?" Dick replied, moving his bishop over to strengthen his offensive.

Bruce studied the board intently. "But how much did you pick up?" he asked in challenge, finally moving a rook one space over.

"Enough," Dick answered with a slight grin as he moved his own rook away from the discovered attack of one of Bruce's bishops.

Bruce came close to smirking. Then, much to Dick's dismay, he moved his knight and captured Dick's other rook. "Really?" he challenged good-naturedly, fingering the captured piece gingerly before his eyes and then setting it aside.

"Perhaps if you were home more often I'd get to practice more," Dick said despondently as he gazed at chessboard. Finally he moved his own knight over to protect his now vulnerable queen.

"You could always play with Alfred," Bruce countered as he moved a pawn out of the way of a bishop.

"Alfred's busy." And the queen moved back into a less offensive but much safer position. "Besides," he continued. "Playing with you helps me figure out how you think."

"Now there's a dangerous thought," Bruce mused as he moved a pawn.

"And getting into your opponent's head is a valuable skill to learn," Dick added as he surveyed the board. Finally he moved a pawn of his own.

"Indeed," Bruce agreed as he moved his knight, effectively countering the attack that Dick had planned.

Dick's face fell when he saw what Bruce had done. "If I didn't know better I'd swear you were cheating," he grumbled, an edge to his voice that Bruce readily picked up. Finally he moved his own knight and captured an unprotected pawn.

Bruce then took that knight with his own queen, leaving both a rook and a bishop unprotected. Dick looked up in barely masked surprise.

"Why?" Bruce asked as innocently as he was capable. "Because I'm winning?"

"That's what you think," Dick rebutted, moving his knight again to take Bruce's unprotected bishop.

"Really?" Bruce countered as he moved a rook forward and took one of Dick's pawns. "Check."

Dick repressed an aggravated sigh.

"Is this how you finally beat the Joker?" he asked, his voice retaining that hard edge that Bruce was all too aware of. Dick was searching Bruce's face for answers. "By staying one step ahead of his every move until you could trap him just where you wanted him?"

Bruce tensed at the rhetorical question, but it was hidden by the baggy sweater he was wearing.

"I did what had to be done," he answered, finality in his voice.

"It's not the ends that worry me, Bruce," Dick said, all traces of harshness seemingly having vanished. "It's your means."

"The ends justify the means," Bruce countered, his own voice taking on darker qualities usually reserved for other activities.

"Well what were these ends then?" Dick asked, curiosity covering any suspicions or accusations.

A pregnant pause.

"The Joker had to be stopped." Bruce left out the rest of the thought accompanying that statement. To this statement, Dick nodded.

"We should have done it together."

"And just let them run free in the meantime?" Bruce redirected with slight incredulousness.

Dick had nothing to say to that.

"You're in check," Bruce then reminded him. Surprised, Dick returned his attentions to the chessboard.

"Next time you should wait for me," Dick replied as he moved his king out of the way of the attack. "Judging from the splatter on your costume... you needed me last night."

But Bruce had stopped listening. His mind had latched onto the first words Dick had said, and was quietly reeling. No matter how strong Batman was, _Bruce Wayne_ wasn't sure if he could endure another ten days of waiting for Dick to awaken in the ICU.

"There won't be a next time," he said, quietly and definitively.

Dick blinked in surprise, knowing that he heard right and yet refusing to believe. "What?" he rasped the question.

"You heard me," Bruce replied sternly. "There isn't going to be a next time. Robin is a liability that Batman cannot afford."

Dick flinched. "Is that what I am to you?" he asked quietly. "A liability?"

Bruce could sense the undercurrents of meaning that question carried and it cut him like a knife.

"I thought we were partners." Incredulousness and insecurity in that statement.

Bruce ignored them.

"We were. I'm ending the partnership."

"But—"

"I won't risk you getting hurt again."

Dick didn't catch the softness with which this last phrase was spoken.

"It's my risk to take," Dick defended. "I knew that going in."

"Not anymore," Bruce countered. "I can't—I _won't_, take that risk."

"No one's asking _you _to risk anything," Dick returned hotly.

That statement hit Bruce like a kick in the stomach.

"What's changed?" Dick demanded when Bruce didn't answer. "We're both still here."

"It doesn't matter," Bruce replied dismissively, retreating, closeting his psyche. "I created this partnership, and now I'm ending it."

"You can't do that!" Dick practically shouted. "I swore an oath, remember? How can you stand in the way of that?"

"I'm not," Bruce calmly rebuffed. "I'm absolving you of it."

For all his anger and indignation, Dick seriously looked as though he was going to be sick.

"Is it just that easy for you?" he asked, hurt in his voice now instead of anger. "Just cut away your so-called liabilities?"

Once again Dick's accusations cut Bruce deeply.

"Dick—"

"Forget it," the dispossessed Boy Wonder said in disgust, tipping over his king in resignation of the match. Then, standing: "Just forget it."

In more than a walk, less than a storm, Dick left the study and slammed the double doors closed behind him.

Bruce sat in stunned silence for a moment, allowing the implications of their conversation to fully sink in. Then he wiped an angry hand across the chessboard and scattered the pieces to the floor before rising in disgust and turning to the large bay window to watch the full moon rising higher over Gotham.

* * *

Dick spent the next few days avoiding Bruce. He would tell Alfred that he was too tired to come down to breakfast and find some other excuse to avoid eating dinner. Alfred was respectful of his wishes, provided he was still eating. The routine became that Dick would sleep until Bruce went to bed and then he would get up for breakfast. He would read or watch television for a few hours—long enough to be too engrossed in whatever it was to come down to dinner. Then after Bruce was gone for the evening Dick would exercise and still make it to bed well before the Batman would return from his nightly prowl, thus the reason for sleeping through breakfast. 

This went on for a week and a half. Bruce knew that Dick was avoiding him, but his solution was to simply 'give it time'. After all, it's not like they've never fought before...

Alfred finally grew tired of it. Knowing that neither Bruce nor Dick would make the first move, he took the responsibility upon himself. As soon as Bruce was asleep he went to Dick's bedroom and knocked on the door.

"Go away," was the disinterested call he received in greeting.

"It's only me, Master Dick," Alfred said as he opened the door.

Dick put his _Wired Magazine_ down and sat up. "Alfred," he said in slight surprise. "What can I do for you?"

Alfred sighed and claimed a chair, which he dragged over to the bedside to facilitate conversation.

"You can't avoid him forever, Master Dick," Alfred said sagely, coming straight to the point.

Now it was Dick who sighed.

"Surely you weren't planning to try."

"Just for now," Dick said petulantly, indicating that he hadn't really thought beyond his anger yet. "Until I come up with something better."

"Please don't tell me you were planning on going out anyway and working independently?" Alfred asked, sounding disappointed.

Dick blushed slightly. "He'd kill me," he said dejectedly. Then: "But I gotta do _something_, Alfred. He..." Dick looked away. "He fired me."

Alfred bit back a grin: here was his chance.

"Why?"

Dick blinked.

"Why do you feel the need to do something about this situation?" Alfred clarified.

"Because I swore an oath!" Dick defended as though he was just asked why two and two are four.

"Yes you did," Alfred agreed. "But he is not holding you to it. You have no obligation now."

"It's not about obligation," Dick protested.

Alfred raised an amused eyebrow.

"Ok maybe it is," Dick amended. "But, I swore to 'fight alongside him, fighting crime and corruption and never swerving from the path of righteousness!' I can't just walk away from that simply because _he's_ had a change of heart."

Alfred couldn't stop the quiet chuckle that escaped his lips.

"What's so funny?"

"That sounds like something Master Bruce would come up with," Alfred confessed.

Dick shrugged in annoyed defeat. "I don't care if he got it from a comic book!" Dick insisted. "I swore an oath. I haven't broken it yet and I don't intend to start now."

Alfred looked oddly contemplative for a moment before he spoke. Dick knew well enough to sit up and take notice.

"Is this really about an oath, Master Dick?"

Dick was taken slightly aback by this question and blinked in surprise.

"Let me tell you a story," Alfred continued. "When my family was still living in England, my grandfather was a young man of simple means and great ambition. Unfortunately, times were hard, work scarce; you know how it is… Well, he got himself into a spot of trouble you see; decided to facilitate his income with—how should I put it? Illegally obtained wealth."

Dick was listening intently. He had never heard Alfred speak about his family before, aside from the fact that he is a third generation butler for the Wayne family.

"Well you see," Alfred continued, "my grandfather has the dubious honor of being the first to successfully break into Wayne Manor—oh, not this one, you see. I mean its predecessor back in jolly old England, in the town of Pershore, in Worcestershire."

Alfred had to chuckle at Dick's expression. The young master found it rather difficult to believe that his beloved butler had a criminal in the family.

"Well you see Master Dick, my grandfather was not a particularly skillful thief and the authorities picked him up before he even had the chance to escape the grounds. Then the most peculiar thing happened. Master Bruce's great grandfather, Master Charles Thomas Wayne, came to hear the trial and sentencing of the young man that had made off with his heirloom candlesticks—you know, the ones in the fine dining room on the mantle. Well I'm not sure if you're aware, Master Dick, but the sentence in Pershore back then for petty theft was hanging. Now, Master Charles thought that to be a might unfair, and so he intervened on my grandfather's behalf. This is when my grandfather began his employ to the Wayne family, and he was so grateful towards Master Charles for sparing his life that he swore an oath. My grandfather swore that the Pennyworths would always honor and serve the Waynes until either the Waynes saw fit to release them or England fell into the sea.

"And my grandfather upheld this oath, even when it meant uprooting his family to facilitate the move to America. And my father upheld this oath after him until the day he died. And upon hearing of my father's death I returned from England—where I had been living at the time—and I too stepped in to uphold this oath, even though it meant leaving everything that I loved behind and returning to a country I hadn't seen since primary school. Oaths are powerful things, Master Dick."

Dick was mesmerized by Alfred's tale. At the end he took a considerable length of time to process this new information. He never had any idea...

"And they never released you from the oath?" he asked, surprised. It seemed rather cruel in his mind to permanently bind an entire family to servitude.

"They did, Master Dick," Alfred corrected.

Dick blinked in surprise and confusion and Alfred laughed quietly.

"Master Thomas—Bruce's father, saw no reason for me to stay on when it would have been just as simple to hire someone else. The reason I was not with them at the theatre that fateful night was because I was making arrangements to return to England."

Dick had no idea, and his reactions demonstrated this and Alfred laughed again, softly.

"And so you stayed…"

Alfred nodded. "I stayed."

It looked as though the seeds of comprehension were sown, but Alfred needed to be sure and so he continued.

"When Master Bruce's parents died I chose to stay on. The Waynes had named me his legal guardian in the event that something should happen to them and so it was just easier all around for everybody if I stayed."

"But you stayed even after Bruce grew up…"

Alfred nodded gravely. "I placed myself in charge of Master Bruce's education, and he had no sooner ceased schooling that he decided… well, to put that schooling to a rather creative use. He tried to dismiss me then, claiming that it would be too dangerous for me given the nature of his work. I simply informed him that he didn't have the power to release me since his father had already beaten him to it just prior to his untimely death."

For lack of a better response Dick just shook his head. "You stayed all this time…"

"Some things are greater than the oaths we swear, Master Dick," Alfred reiterated. "And so I'll ask you again: why is this so important to you? Is it because of your oath, or is it because of something a bit more profound?"

Dick didn't have an answer for him. It was so much to take in—so much more to consider than he had ever given thought to before. He was so young when it all happened—his parents dying that horrible way, then moving in with Bruce, learning about Batman and becoming Robin. Why did he do it? Was it simply to fight the good fight? Was it because it was the best way to find his parents' killer? Was it because he idolized Batman? He really couldn't say for certain, and this fact frightened him.

"Or is it because Master Bruce made the choice for you." Alfred interrupted Dick's thoughts.

"When I was a kid in the circus," Dick began eventually, "Batman was the local legend of Gotham, some mythic beast that everyone said probably didn't exist. Then I learned that he was real—that he operated outside the law to hunt criminals who held themselves above the law. Then I learned that he was Bruce, and learned why Bruce was… the way he was." Dick sighed, attempting to choose his words carefully. "I learned that I had something in common with him. Both our parents were murdered. When he told me that he became Batman to find his parents' killers…"

"You insisted on having that same chance." Alfred finished for him.

Dick nodded. This was the first time in a long while that he was forced to give any thoughts to being Robin. It was habit now, a part of himself both intrinsic and external. He _was_ Robin. Having that taken away felt like having something precious stolen from him, like having a limb amputated that could never be restored.

"And so I became Robin," Dick continued. "I did it for the same reasons Bruce became Batman. Why should he be allowed to continue and not me?"

Alfred sighed heavily, wanting to tell Dick the obvious truth but knowing that it wasn't his place. This was between Master Dick and Master Bruce. In truth he really shouldn't be interfering at all.

"And yet your parents' murder was solved and the perpetrators brought to justice _before_ you became the Batman's official partner," Alfred reminded him.

Dick took his time formulating a response to that. "Bruce didn't really become Batman to catch his parents' killer," he said at length. "He did it so that no other eight-year-olds are orphaned in Gotham."

Alfred's expression remained guarded as he asked: "Why do you think Master Bruce allowed you to become his partner?"

Dick opened his mouth to respond before he realized that he really didn't have an answer to that.

"You've already said it yourself," Alfred continued. "You found in Bruce's secret a kindred spirit. Don't you think that he would naturally have felt the same way?"

Dick bit the inside of his lip. He hadn't considered that.

"So what's changed?" he asked quietly.

Alfred gave him a serious look that could have almost been considered sad.

"Nothing, Master Dick. Nothing at all."

The two sat in contemplative silence for a long moment. Then:

"What gives him the right to make my choices for me?"

Alfred managed a semi-smirk. "He's Batman. You're Robin. That rather makes him in charge."

Dick huffed. "And that makes him always right?"

"A leader's word must be taken without question," Alfred said quite seriously. "You know this."

"Well apparently he doesn't need to lead anymore," Dick grumbled. "He wants to do it all on his own." The bitterness in his voice was undeniable.

Alfred stared at Dick for a long moment, almost like he was making some sort of assessment.

"And what do _you_ want, Master Dick?"

Much to his surprise, Dick found the answer to come quite easily. "To keep doing what I've been doing," he said. "Even after Zucco died… there are others like him, like whoever it was that killed Bruce's parents. People who think that they can own the law and take no responsibility for their actions… actions that leave people orphaned."

Alfred seemed to smile then, as though he had heard something that he wanted to hear.

"You see, Master Dick, there are greater things in life than upholding oaths. Oaths are about honor, you see, and a man who holds his own honor above all else is simply holding to vanity. Duty is greater than honor, Richard. Remember that, and duty will dictate your actions for you."

Dick nodded gravely, taking note of Alfred's uncharacteristic use of his full first name without it being part of a stern reprimand.

"So what action am I supposed to take now?"

"Well," said Alfred, the serious tone seemingly having evaporated. "There are of course other ways of fighting crime than just vigilante work."

Dick perked up at this, curious and interested.

"Perhaps you should consider them. After all, expanding one's mind is always a good idea."

* * *

Dick continued to heal as the weeks stretched into months. While the open animosity that he felt towards Bruce had dimmed somewhat, things were by no means all right between them. Whatever friendship they may have had seemed to have cooled, as though the rift that had formed was only widening as the heat of anger dissipated. The bridges were burned and in the aftermath both parties were left to stare at the other from opposite sides of an impossibly wide ravine. 

As winter melted into spring and April's rains chased away March's snows many things long hidden these past few months were laid bare. Dick had been spending most of his time in the gymnasium on the third floor of Wayne Manor—he had long since stopped visiting the Batcave, seeming to Bruce that he preferred to forget its existence. His agility and balance were back to where they should be if not higher. The only elements missing were the old speed, strength, and endurance, and Dick was working relentlessly to build them up. To accomplish this alone he had taken to racquetball, and one day in mid April Bruce entered the gym to see Dick crushing the ball against the wall.

"Your aim is improving," Bruce ventured.

Dick heard him—had heard him enter the gym even, but chose not to answer. Instead he backhanded the ball into the opposite corner and watched with satisfaction as it careened off two walls before returning to him.

"Practice," Dick said after a few more hits. The ball would smack the racquet and bounce off the walls in a tensely repetitious pattern.

"How's the endurance?" Bruce asked casually.

A few more hits, a few more bounces.

"I don't want to play."

"I didn't ask."

Dick crushed a ball into the floor by the wall, causing it to ricochet to the ceiling and back, giving Dick extra time to switch the racquet into his other hand. That's when Bruce noticed that all this time he had been swinging lefty. A few more swings and then:

"So why are you here?"

"I found an opened letter on my desk this afternoon, mixed in with my mail."

Dick continued to swing at the ball with a coldly methodical rhythm that may have unnerved even Bruce if he were subjected to it for long enough.

"I was wondering where I left that…"

The rhythm didn't change.

"You're not one for subtleties, are you," said Bruce.

It wasn't a question.

If the angle would have permitted, he would have seen the faintest of smirks break through the intent expression on Dick's face.

"Learned from the best."

And the rhythm didn't change.

However Bruce envisioned this conversation going, this certainly wasn't it. "Care to put the racquet down and talk to me?"

A few more swings and a few more bounces and the rhythm didn't change at all.

"Nope."

Bruce was starting to get exasperated. "Is this how you were planning on telling me you were leaving?" he asked, barely restraining the disbelief from showing in his voice.

"Would you have preferred a chess game?"

All the while Dick was hitting the racquetball with smooth, even strokes. Bruce was beginning to see that _he_ was the emotional one in this scene, and that reality came as a shocking revelation.

"You never even told me you were applying to college."

Once again the angle denied Bruce the glimpse of the growing smirk on Dick's face.

"I didn't hide it either." Bounce-thwack-bounce. "You must not have been paying attention." Thwack! Once again the ball went crazy and Dick switched racquet hands before it returned to him.

"You used to tell me these things."

Bounce-thwack-bounce.

"You used to trust me."

THWACK!

The ball ricocheted everywhere and out of control because immediately after making the swing Dick dropped the racquet and clutched at his shoulder in pain. Bruce's natural first response was to go to him, but when Dick turned around and saw that Bruce had moved closer he wasn't pleased.

"Dick—"

"Leave it," he directed tiredly, bitterly, as he rotated his shoulder to work out the pain. "What do you care anyway?" He stooped to pick up his discarded racquet and went searching for his ball. Then, with his back still to Bruce: "You killed Robin."

Safely out of Dick's view Bruce visibly winced.

"I saved Dick Grayson," Bruce said, almost too quietly to hear. "That was more important."

Dick found his ball and picked it up. He turned fully to face Bruce across the gym before asking just as quietly:

"There's a difference?"

He and Bruce just stood and stared at each other across the vast and empty gymnasium. Bruce wanted to shout that of course there was a difference, that Batman and Bruce Wayne were not the same person… that Bruce Wayne could not handle Batman's darkness, the steps and tactics needed to win. Realization sunk in like lead in his stomach as he saw for the first time what perhaps he has always known: Grayson and Robin are the same person, they always were.

Dick had his racquet and his ball in hand and so ended the moment by bringing them over to his duffle bag and stowing them away. Then he hoisted the bag across his shoulder, emitting a grunt of pain as he did so that made Bruce nearly take a step towards him.

But Bruce couldn't move. He was powerless to bridge the gap between them.

"You should be happy with yourself," Dick said tonelessly as he made his way towards the double doors of the gymnasium entrance. "You've done what even the Joker couldn't do."

The doors were swung wide.

"Robin is dead because of you."

And the doors swung shut and Dick was gone, leaving Bruce all alone in the vast, empty gymnasium.

* * *

Alfred didn't see either of them until dinnertime, and even then he only saw Bruce, who plodded heavily into the kitchen freshly showered and wearing sweats. 

"Please tell me I don't have to order a new door for the third floor gymnasium," Alfred commented when he saw that Bruce's hands were taped.

"Punching bag," Bruce grumbled as he opened the refrigerator and pulled out the orange juice. "Where's the vacuum?"

Alfred couldn't help the wry smile as he placed the dinner tray on the table. "I'll take care of it," he said dismissively.

Bruce then noticed that Alfred hadn't even bothered to set a place for Dick.

"How involved were you in this?" he asked candidly.

Alfred paused only a moment before continuing to serve dinner.

"I saw a need; I took care of it. That's what I do."

"And what need was that?"

A pregnant pause.

"The same as yours."

A scoff. "He needed to run away?"

"He needs to follow through. This is just another way."

* * *

April lengthened into May and May waned into June. You wouldn't know to look at Dick as he worked out that anything was amiss. That of course didn't mean that Dick didn't notice, and his regiment was still as tough as ever. However, the time for rehabilitation was over. Now he was in his room making sure that he had everything he needed packed and ready to go. He had his duffle packed with immediate needs—a change of clothes and his laptop—as well as a few small personal effects. The rest he was planning on acquiring when he arrived. As ward of Bruce Wayne, he was in no means strapped for cash, which was something he tried to impress upon Alfred when the butler had causally informed him that he would be picking up the tab for tuition. Alfred's response was that as an aging butler he had more money at this point than he knew what to do with so it might as well be put to good use. 

"Now what have I forgotten…"

"Perhaps this?" Alfred suddenly entered his room carrying a spare jacket.

Dick smiled sheepishly and took it from him. "Thanks Alfred. I don't know what I'm going to do without you."

"Your own laundry perhaps," was Alfred's serious reply.

Dick chuckled as he took the jacket and began balling it up to fit in his duffle. Alfred saw over his shoulder that the duffle was packed mostly with sentimental items—photographs of his family and such. Alfred then noticed the only photograph Dick had neglected to pack, and it was sitting in a place of prominence atop his mostly barren desk: the only framed picture Dick had of himself and Bruce together, standing side by side on skis beside the lift with the breathtaking Austrian Alps in the background behind them.

"Did I never teach you to fold?" Alfred asked with mock-irritation as he took the balled-up jacket from Dick. He began folding it so that it would fit into the tiny space allocated for it in the duffle. He slipped the photograph into the folds and out of sight while Dick's back was turned and when he handed the folded garment back to him it was placed in the duffle without Dick having any clue.

"I think that's it," Dick said, taking one last wistful look about his room and wondering when he would ever see it again.

"So it would seem," Alfred agreed neutrally.

An awkward pause while Dick struggled to find the right words to say.

"Alfred…" He failed. "Thanks. For everything."

"Thank me by succeeding."

Finally getting over himself and throwing caution to the wind, Dick pulled Alfred into an awkward hug, which was belatedly yet eagerly returned.

"All set?" Bruce asked, walking in and interrupting the moment.

"Think so," Dick said dismissively as he and Alfred separated.

"Walk you to the garage?"

"I think I can manage."

Bruce just nodded. He had expected as much.

"Good luck," he called out, as though the last statement hadn't affected him any.

Dick turned around. "Thanks," he said with the most sincerity Bruce has heard from him in months.

The two of them stood there for a moment, wanting to say things they could not say. Alfred recognized the painful tension to it and so ended the spell.

"You should be going now if you want to arrive before dark."

Dick nodded absently and then turned away. Alfred led the way out of the room and Dick slung the duffle over his shoulder—no signs of pain this time—and followed suit. He stopped in the doorframe and turned around.

"Bruce?"

Bruce looked up, having been startled out of a trance of his own. He was staring at Dick's vacated room, wondering when he would ever be back again.

"Yes?"

A pause.

Dick's mind stumbled over how to say what he would not allow himself to leave without saying.

"Take care of yourself," he said at length. "I don't want to hear about your death on the Six O'clock News."

Bruce allowed himself a ghost of a smile. "You too."

Dick nearly smiled back, and they both nodded slightly at the other. Then Dick turned and followed Alfred out the door, leaving Bruce alone in the room.

* * *

Dick was making his way around the numerous cars in the giant garage over to where his bike was sitting. Alfred followed for a time but then put a restraining hand on Dick's shoulder. 

"Ah, this way, Master Dick," he said when Dick turned around.

Curious, Dick allowed himself to be led over to the back wall of the garage near the service door. Sitting there, brightly waxed and sparkling in the fluorescent light was a brand new sports car, robin red.

"Alfred… I can't."

Alfred reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys. "Why not?" he asked innocently. "Has all that time on a bike dulled your memory of the feel of a sports car on the open road?"

Lost for words, Dick could only laugh and shake his head. Alfred pressed the keys into his hands.

"I won't be on hand to tune it up after every turn so do try and take good care of it."

"I will," Dick promised sincerely.

Alfred smiled as he opened the passenger side door. Dick threw his duffle onto the seat and walked over to the other side of the car.

"Good luck, Master Dick."

"Thanks."

Not wanting to drag out the goodbye any longer for fear of what it may do to him, Dick climbed into the car and fastened his seatbelt. The feel of the wheel in his hands alone was enough to make him eager to see what she could do. The garage door opened and Dick started her up. Immediately he could tell the man-hours Alfred put into the engine. A boyish grin plastered to his face, Dick shifted into reverse and released the parking break. A wave to Alfred and he was gone.

Bruce was watching from the study window as Dick drove away. His eyes followed the car until it couldn't be seen. Then with a heavy sigh he left the window and walked over to the chess set. One finger tipped over the black king, carefully ensuring that no other pieces were disturbed. Then he sat in his wing chair and silently put his head in his hands.

* * *

Dick arrived at Hudson University on Long Island just as the sun was setting over the campus. The first thing he needed to do according to the packet the school sent him was to check in with campus security and get a parking pass. Knowing that this would require his driver's license and registration, Dick popped open the glove box and was taken by surprise at what he saw. Sitting in the glove box was his registration and owners manual, as expected, but they were sitting next to a cell phone. 

Curious, Dick grabbed the cell phone and flipped it open. On a whim he hit the 'contacts' button. The numbers for Wayne Manor, Bruce's desk phone at Wayne Enterprises, both Bruce and Alfred's cell phones, Leslie's number at the clinic, Commissioner Gordon's desk number, and one labeled 'belfry' which he recognized instantly were already preprogrammed for him.

Dick was mulling this new information over when the phone beeped at him. Startled, he looked at the display and saw that he had a voicemail. Not entirely surprised by this, Dick pressed 'send' and followed the voicemail setup instructions. Then when he was finally given access to his voicemail box he heard Bruce's voice coming through the receiver.

_Don't worry about the cost of the phone. The phone is free. It's the least I can do. Oh and I made a care package for you. It's in the trunk._

Too stunned to speak Dick closed out of his voicemail and shut the phone. Then, realizing what time it was, he decided to get out and register his car.

The process was rather long and involved entirely too much paperwork, but finally Dick was legally allowed to park on campus.

The next stop was to the office of Student Housing—which was getting ready to close—to pick up his keys. He was one of only a handful of students arriving for the summer session, but his convalescence meant that he had to miss his senior year and then pick up a GED. This made class placement difficult and if he wanted to start out where it was appropriate the summer session was necessary.

It was dark by the time Dick pulled into the appropriate campus parking lot. He grabbed his duffle from the passenger side and got out of the car, being sure to lock it and set the alarm. Then he went to the trunk and keyed into it, and when the door lofted he saw the package: an ordinary cardboard box wrapped in packing tape. Nothing special about it but it made Dick smile when he thought of the effort. The car was most likely a gift from Bruce as well, and for some reason such thoughts took the chill out of the damp and drizzly night.

Dick took the package and his duffle up to his room: a single earned through a rather generous donation to the college. Once there he unpacked what little he had brought, set up his laptop, and put sheets on his bed.

He was unfolding his jacket when a photo fell to the ground. Surprised, Dick bent down to retrieve it.

"Alfred…" he murmured fondly, admiring the butler's consideration and slight of hand. He placed the picture on top of his desk with the others and felt better for having it with him.

That only left the package.

Forcing himself to be disinterested, Dick slid a key into the packing tape and ripped it open. Then tossing the keys aside he opened the box top and peered inside. There he saw a bag containing the accessories for the cell phone and its manual. These were sitting on top of a manila envelope that was sitting on top of yet another package. Dick set the phone to charge and picked up the envelope. Flicking it open he allowed the contents to slide out onto his desk.

If the cell phone had been a sufficient surprise, than this was a bigger one.

There sat the schematics for his car, the code name 'Red Bird' titling the documents on every page. At first glance he saw that the car itself was bulletproof, even before it converted into a battle-ready cruiser. Dick was too shocked—too tired to contemplate the possible implications, to read the entire schematic now. He flipped through it absently and skimmed a bit, fully intending to read it in the morning when he was more awake.

That's when he noticed that the car schematics stopped with pages to spare.

There, attached to the car schematics were the schematics for a brand new Robin suit. Dick was so surprised that he dropped the pages. That had to be the other package!

He was ripping the smaller box open in the next instant, then after a brief yet fierce battle with the tissue paper Dick uncovered the suit. His breath caught in his throat as he beheld it. Gingerly he reached into the box and held it aloft—instantly recognizing the feel of Kevlar beneath his fingers. Sounds from the hallway made him hastily shove it back into the box, however. He would have to examine the brand new utility belt later.

That's when he noticed a letter, sealed in an enveloped and addressed to him, written in Bruce's overly precise handwriting.

_We both knew that you would go out eventually, even without my permission. If you won't obey me, you can at least stay safe out there._

Dick couldn't stop himself from smiling, one of the first genuine smiles he'd had in a long, long time.

This certainly was going to be an interesting semester.

* * *

AN: Dick Grayson was the first of four people to wear the Robin costume in traditional canon. He's the one from the 60s TV show, the movies, and the first one shown in Batman: the Animated Series. He was also a founding member of the original Teen Titans. The cartoon claims that they wanted to create a "newer" Robin, revamping the character and such, so they stuck the first three Robins in a blender to create their version. It didn't matter because none of the cartoon characters have secret identities, or even real names. Well we're changing that. The Titans are going to be real people as well as super heroes for this story, and so Robin is Dick Grayson. 

This chapter is our blending of both comic and animated series canon because we needed to explain why Robin left Batman. In the comics, he worked with the Titans while still basing himself in Gotham with Batman, just as Batman would sometimes go off and join the Justice League. Robin in the cartoon very rarely acknowledges Batman's existence so we wanted to show why that is.

In both canons, Robin went away to college. Hudson University, like most places in DC's universe, doesn't exist. Eventually, DC made a map of where their cities were (would you believe that Gotham is supposed to be on the Jersey Shore?) and they also placed Hudson U as being near Woodstock, NY. However, in the comics the Teen Titans were located in New York City (Titans Tower was on an island in the East River). Long Island was used for this fic because it is a short jaunt from the city (and has later canonical implications). According to the cartoon the Titans are in a fictitious city on the west coast called "Jump City." While there is something in canon with "Titans East" and "Titans West," we're not getting into that yet. The Titans are going to be fighting crime in New York. For now.


	2. Robin meets Raven

_Asbury Park, NJ  
Summer_

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion…Xinthos…………_

The world was empty, dark. Nothingness. Everything was quiet… the absence of sound echoing in silence. All was still, all was everything and nothing. All was here.

All was gone.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion…Xinthos…………_

There was calm in that silence. Peace in that darkness. Light in that peace and acceptance in that calm. Life was balanced and still.

_Azarath…Metrion…Xinthos…_

And then the feather-light touch upon her mind. A smirk. She opened her eyes and ceased her levitation. Coming to rest Indian-style on the floor, she stretched out her legs and massaged the cramps in her calves. She'd been at it too long again, she surmised. Not that she cared if her body protested, however. The… more important part of her… was content with it.

Calm, quiet, collected… peaceful… she stood from the floor. Her mother needed her in the kitchen. Probably for dinner, given the sudden rumblings in her stomach. Idly she glanced at the clock. Was it really—oh, yeah, she guessed it was.

Her mother had set the table and was pouring lemonade into glasses. Raven nearly smiled in greeting and her mother finished the gesture with flourish. The two sat down together for what was to be Raven's last meal in this place. The next morning she was off to school, and her mother, no longer really needed to provide the type of care her daughter had required, was off to… well, they hadn't quite discussed _that_ yet.

Calmness… Peace… Stillness… Not a word, not a sound save for the clinking of silverware and the occasional creak of a chair. Yet nothing remotely uncomfortable.

Acceptance.

Routine.

Rote.

Of course there were other ways… but why intrude upon this moment with the harsh and abrasive customs of Earth?

Raven's mother, known on this planet by her Christian name Angela Roth, but to everyone that mattered she was Arella, the Messenger Angel. Raven's mother, who smiled congenially as her daughter cleared her plate and began on seconds, a misguided heroine to some and harbinger of the apocalypse to countless more, a frightened Earth-girl whose selfish choice has brought civilization to its knees.

Living is always the selfish choice.

And then an outcast, a runaway martyr who couldn't bring herself to destroy her offspring and ensure the salvation of worlds.

A mother.

Raven's mother.

Raven, the child.

A winged raven, messenger of Odin, memory of the Gods, link to power through knowledge of the outside world. Black Bird, Raven, flying on the wings of death. Raven, daughter of Arella and a demon who hoped to escape from Hell by being reborn into his offspring. A seed that was not destroyed. A child allowed to live.

Raven.

Arella.

A child…

And a mother.

That mother sat in silence and watched her daughter refill her plate with the ghost of a smile the only outwardly show of appreciation. This was her last chance to watch her daughter in this way… with eyes and ears and intelligence and from right across the room. The world—the one that mattered—would never forgive her for her choices. Yet, in their way, forgives is never necessary, because anger—even hate, aren't felt in their hearts and minds they way mere Earthlings conceive of such emotions. Choices were made that cannot be unmade. Instead… other choices were made.

Angela Roth was barely older than her daughter is now when she found herself in the arms of the cult that changed the world forever, starting with her. It was her own way of revenge against a man who would preach and pray with the same hands that did even darker deeds. Angela's fragile psyche and blossoming womanhood felt the mercy of the Good Lord for longer than a pained childhood could remember.

And so she fled…

…straight into the arms of a sinister cult. God didn't exist for Angela, so naturally the Devil didn't either. Wine and love and blood and acceptance and everything she hated of her father flowing freely from the upturned palms of strangers only because in her precariously warped mind it hurt him more…

Hurt his God.

When all is lies and pain and nothing is real the abstracts and the meanings and the feelings are twisted and used to suit one's own devices without pity and without fear because it isn't real. Why not sleep with the Devil to bring him alive on Earth when the Devil is the figment of an imagination that had conjured up worse things in its lifetime?

Why not? It hurts no one but the vague constructs of an abusive God whose faithful servant had to extract in flesh recompense for some unnamed sin.

Why not? Because the Devil is real.

Even though God, apparently, is not.

Angela Roth slept with the Devil, or rather, with a man she believed was masquerading as the Devil during what she thought was an acid-laced alcohol-induced fantasy.

Until the masquerade ended and nightmare became real.

The demon Trigon used the naïve and mostly-harmless rabble of occult-crazed youths, taking their simply conceived yet all together ludicrous concept of unleashing Satan and perverting it into something even more sinister: his ticket home. A bit of wine, a bit of LSD, and a willing mind with open legs, and Trigon was able to plant the seed of his return. Angela would bear his child, which would carry his blood, and through that blood he could exact control, and through that control she would be his avatar on Earth, and then from Earth he could assert himself as the ruler of all creation... including Azarath.

Angela conceived. The demon revealed his true form. The cultists rejoiced even as he slaughtered them as sheep that unwittingly followed the wrong shepherd. And Angela crawled away from the bloody aftermath, terrified, pregnant, and alone.

Yet for every demon there is a god, for every death there is also life, for every Hell… a Heaven.

She was not alone for long.

Azarath… the opposite of the Hell of Trigon, paradise compared to Earth. In Azarath Angela found the will to live—the will to be a mother to her child such as she never had for herself. She gave birth to a daughter, and the leader of Azarath named her 'Raven' after the mythology present on the girl's home planet. Angela took the name Arella and willed that her child's life be spared.

And Azar, powerful leader, teacher, and guide of Azarath… agreed.

And so Arella consigned that her daughter be raised in Azarath, fostered by Azar and taught how to control the demon within her. From Azar Raven learned what her father was and what her mother had become. From Azar Raven learned that in order to stop her father she had to control his vessel. And from Azar Raven learned that that vessel… was herself.

Raven learned that the key to beating her father was self-control. Balance, peace, calm, stillness… these were her weapons. Control was paramount, understanding was key, discipline was essential.

Arella watched from afar as her daughter learned at the feet of the master. Arella watched as her daughter mastered mind, body, emotion, matter, energy, and thought. Arella watched… and was content.

And then disaster.

As with all things too good to be true… as true of all Heavens…

It came to an end.

Evil came to Azarath. Some blamed Raven, others Arella. Some didn't care. Azar had a world in turmoil (turmoil happens in heaven?) she needed to protect. Azar's loving eyes were hard, her wisdom unforgiving. Arella was banished with her daughter back to Earth, seemingly for the greater good of all.

And, being cast out of Azarath at the tender age of fourteen, Raven found herself on Earth.

Earth was loud. Earth was bright. Earth was abrupt and harsh. Earth… was Hell.

And yet, somehow, Arella made due. Somehow she provided Raven with food and roof and other essentials. Somehow she taught Raven everything there is to know about Earth, from language to history to culture. And somehow here in Hell, Raven stuck to her teachings and kept a tight hold on the beast within.

Raven adapted to Earth well enough, though her stoic nature comes off here as cold and distant; her self control as rigid and uncaring. _Angela_ home-schooled her daughter and kept her isolated from the population at large. Raven's gifts of reading others' surface thoughts and emotions—which was an essential part of life in Azarath, was more of a curse than a blessing on Earth. Here, people's thoughts were loud, their emotions glaring. Everything that wasn't said was _thought_, and Raven heard. Loud and clear.

That's why Raven and her mother ate their meals in silence—lived their lives in silence. Angela merely had to _think _and her daughter would hear. And Raven merely had to think _loudly_—i.e. project her thoughts, and her mother would hear. Communication without words; life without expressed emotion.

Calmness, stillness, peace, quiet…

_Azarath…Metrion…Xinthos…_

Alive. Content.

_Happy?_

Raven wasn't aware of the difference.

Her mother was.

As of right now it didn't matter. Raven was eighteen, an adult by Earth standards. And Arella had painfully noticed some time ago that there wasn't much she could do for her daughter to aid in the fight.

Especially now, with Raven twelve hours away from leaving for to college.

Her areas of study were undefined, but the intent was to focus on psychology, philosophy—anything that would help her to gain the edge in the constant war within her. And the study of humanity that would be the college experience is an essential tool to help her maintain her discipline. After all, it is easy to maintain control of one's dark side while in contented isolation. Keeping control when things get out of hand? That's another matter.

And there was a small part of Raven that was genuinely curious and eager to try and learn to live in the world that she was sentenced to.

And so, in less than twelve hours, Angela would be helping her only daughter/Raven Roth, move into Hudson University on Long Island for the start of the summer session. Her rather unorthodox home-schooling had made it difficult to place her in compulsory classes and the summer session would help the school figure out exactly where Raven belongs.

In less than twelve hours Raven would be living in a Hudson University dorm. In less than twenty-four, Arella was returning to Azarath to try and help right the wrongs so many believe that she helped to cause. Raven knew where her mother was going; that place that out of mercy they ensured that she would only barely remember, like some happy moment from early childhood or last week's favorite dream. Raven knew that her mother was returning to Heaven, because Heaven needed fixing. Raven knew… and accepted.

Tonight's meal was the last the two would share together—perhaps forever for all they knew. And it was spent in comfortable silence, each enjoying and subsequently memorizing the feel of the other's company: Angela's feather-light touch upon her daughter's mind that conveyed reassurance, love, acceptance, and a polite reminder to be sure that her winter clothes were packed as well. Raven smirked as she actively thought to answer in the way telepaths partition conversation from thought.

With chagrin she realized that this was the partition ordinary humans were lacking. It would make for a very trying semester.

* * *

Raven and Angela stood in the center of the dorm room, surrounded by boxes containing everything of Raven's worldly possessions. There was nothing left now but the unpacking, but just like the packing, Raven would not suffer anyone to help her.

This was it. The moment of goodbye. Raven stood, stoic and impassive by nature with Angela mimicking by design.

"This is goodbye."

Raven blinked slowly, absorbing the shock from the sudden disruption of the pristine silence.

"Words…" A question, or a statement of fact?

Angela kept up the impassive mask. "Thoughts fail me."

Raven's blank expression didn't change as she tilted her head once in barely perceptible nod. "You can't separate the ones you… wish… me to see from the one's you… don't."

A definite nod from Angela. "Forgive me?"

Raven blinked but didn't nod at the loaded question.

"Forgive what?" she returned finally, a smirk twitching on her lips.

Angela smiled fully. She nodded again, tears moistening her eyes that practice alone ensured would not fall. Her hands she clasped behind her back to prevent her from reaching out for her daughter. Whether or not Raven knew of the hidden emotional turmoil this final goodbye was wreaking with her mother, she never batted a lash.

"Well…" Angela said at last. "I should go."

"Indeed." It wasn't cold, but then it wasn't exactly warm, either.

Angela forced another smile, and a series of nods, as she backpedaled her way towards the door. "Good bye."

Silence.

Another nod, and Angela turned and opened the door.

"Say hello to Azar for me." Blank. Emotionless. Almost formal.

Angela stopped in her tracks.

"I will." Barely a whisper, words chocked back by emotion.

A pause.

Deafening silence.

Raven's mind was closed to her.

A purposeful nod. A controlled exit. Angela was strong enough to maintain control until she made it back to the rental van. Only when she was safely inside and out of Raven's perceptual range did she drop the walls and allow herself the luxury of a mother's tears.

Raven stood in her dorm room, not having moved an inch. Angela thought that she was out of range. Yet she was Raven's mother, linked by stronger bonds than psychic training.

And she was wrong.

_Azarath…Metrion…Xinthos…_

The meditation began.

_Azarath…Metrion…Xinthos…_

Raven levitated, found her center.

_Azarath…Metrion…Xinthos…_

The world melted away. All was calm.

_Azarath…_

Peaceful…

_Metrion…_

Still…

_Xinthos………_

Then what was the sinking weight in her stomach?

_Azarath…Metrion…Xinthos…_

Is this what's Azar's banishment felt like?

The soft chanting ceased and Raven drifted towards the floor again. She was alone now, as she had always wished to be; yet in that same measure, feared.

Calm, cool, collected once more, she began to unpack.

* * *

Morning dawned cold and gray. Raven awoke to the faint light as it streamed in her windows, and groaned. Nevertheless, she was up and dressed in a matter of minutes and seated in a bizarre yoga position to begin her morning meditations.

_Azarath…Metrion…Xinthos…_

_Azarath…Metrion…Xin_—Rumble!

She sat back down, hard, and groaned again.

Perhaps some breakfast first?

Raven left her room and headed for the elevator. There was another student already there, waiting patiently for it to arrive. He turned his head slightly, his smile even slighter, in the form of greeting. Raven blinked. Fortunately the stranger didn't appear to be waiting for her to reply in kind and her complete lack of acknowledgement was swallowed up by the silence between them.

The elevator dinged and opened its doors.

The stranger entered first and pressed the button for the ground floor. That was Raven's destination as well and so she simply stood quietly on the other side of the elevator. It descended in a silence that if perceived as uncomfortable neither let on.

The doors opened. Raven followed the stranger out of the elevator.

She wound up following him all the way to the Hudson U. Café, the only dining facility opened during the summer. She maintained her distance and he seemed not to care—or even notice—she was there.

The stranger handed his student ID over to the cashier, who swiped it and handed it back to him. He mumbled a sincere enough 'thank you' before heading into the café. Raven followed suit but didn't bother to thank the cashier, whose thoughts were full of judgmental opinions about a girl who dyes her hair purple and buys matching contacts. Raven smirked. If only she knew…

The stranger loaded a tray with waffles and sat himself at a random table. Raven grabbed some scrambled eggs and made for a table as far away as possible from the few random students who had beaten them to breakfast.

She pulled a faded paperback out of her jacket pocket and buried her nose, hoping that the slightly rubbery taste of café eggs and the ramblings of Sartre would distract her from the din of unsaid thought.

It didn't work.

The two girls in the corner—obviously new roommates, were sizing each other up behind friendly eyes and idle chitchat. Another boy sat alone reading a comic book and giving rather amusing voices to the characters he was reading. The cook behind the griddle was mentally counting down the minutes 'til quitting time with reckless abandon. Another table had girls evaluating every male in the room in a rather… primal way.

_…What color are his eyes? …_

Raven blinked and peered over her book. One of the girl's thoughts rang through loud and clear above the din. Raven couldn't help but be curious. _Whose eyes?_

That's when she remembered the stranger she had incidentally followed to the café. She _remembered _only because she had previously _forgotten_ his presence. Raven lowered the book slowly in a calculated movement. There he sat, chewing on waffles and idly skimming the newspaper someone had left on his table.

Raven silently gasped.

His mind was dark!

Raven closed her eyes and hid behind her book, clandestinely stretching out with her senses...

_PHEW!_

Not dark like hers. Dark like somebody turned out all the lights. Dark like…

_His mind is closed! _

Raven lowered her book again, intrigued. She had never encountered an Earthling capable of shutting her out. Well, her mother could to some extent, but years' worth of training in Azarath is responsible for that.

But this stranger wasn't from Azarath. She would have sensed that about him immediately.

Raven's lips turned in the barest of smirks.

_Blue. Ice blue._

From her vantage point she could see his eyes. They seemed to be reading the paper before them with disinterest.

Ice blue eyes, ink-black hair, ivory skin that hasn't seen enough daylight. Raven found it easy to study him. In doing so, so intently was she listening to the silence from his mind that all else faded away. She heard only silence, and in silence there was calm; there was stillness; there was peace.

_Azarath…Metrion…Xinthos…_

But she wasn't meditating.

She was staring with interest at a stranger with ice blue eyes.

Then suddenly he stood and grabbed his tray. Raven shoved her nose into her book again to cover herself and was bludgeoned with the rush of incoming thoughts. She grabbed her temple with one hand, as if dizzy, and slowly the pain faded.

When she looked up, the stranger was gone.

* * *

Raven didn't run into him again for days.

Summer session classes were about to start now that all the new students were supposedly moved in. Raven decidedly didn't like how paper-thin her walls were. She spent much of her time meditating to escape the headaches that come from hearing too much human thought.

So much time that she didn't truly finish unpacking.

Her computer still sat in pieces—or what she assumed was pieces. Why did it need so many boxes anyway?

With an unexpressed air of resignation Raven ripped the packing tape off the first box. The lid flew back and packing peanuts went everywhere.

"Azarath…Metrion…XINTHOS!"

The peanuts flew madly about and became enveloped in obsidian nothingness. The nothingness swirled and returned to the box, whose lid snapped shut with as much BANG as cardboard could muster.

_Azarath…Metrion…Xinthos…_

Find the peace.

_Azarath…Metrion…Xinthos…_

Find the calm.

_Azarath…Metrion…Xinthos…_

Find the center.

_Azarath…Metrion…_WHINE!

_Find someone who knows about computers, idiot!_

Raven entered the hallway, steeling herself for what would be her first verbal encounter with a stranger.

The first sounds she heard were coming from the room directly across from hers. Something hard, abrupt, grating...

… but the words…

_Darkness imprisoning me. All that I see—Absolute horror. I cannot live. I cannot die. Trapped in myself—body my holding cell!_

Raven gasped and stepped back.

Thankfully no one was there to see.

She regained her composure quickly, however, and silently berated herself for allowing coincidence to unnerve her. She looked at the door again—ignoring the music this time. She noticed with satisfaction that whoever lived here had done as she had and torn down the red construction-paper bird that said the occupant's names on every door. The denizen of this room had replaced it with a whiteboard, however, much like the others in this hallway. Though this one was pristinely blank without so much as name or greeting written there.

Raven full-out smirked. She suddenly caught the thoughts of the one behind the door. He was mentally grumbling in some form of techno-jargon. Obviously he knows something about those infernal machines…

Raven steeled herself… and knocked.

Nothing.

She groaned and knocked louder.

A pause. The music stopped. She knocked again.

Shuffling noises from within. Then silence.

_… Silence…_

The mind inside had closed.

Raven didn't have time to contemplate this, however. The door swung open and revealed the boy from earlier. Ice blue eyes looked down at her from an unreadable face.

"Yes?" His voice was just as unreadable and his eyes seemed to stare through her. Humans weren't supposed to have eyes that intense.

"Are you a stereotypical teenage boy?" she droned monotonously.

His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched slightly but he didn't respond.

"Computers," she clarified. "Can you… you know… make them work?"

A tense pause before the jaw unclenched and the eyes returned to normal. And was that the ghost of a smile she saw playing on his lips?

"What doesn't it do?" he asked candidly.

"Get out of the box and set itself up." That would have been sarcastic if the tone believed the words. Instead it was delivered deadpan.

"They usually don't," the boy returned, just as evenly.

"Can you do something about it?" she asked with only the barest hint of inflection.

His expression seemed frozen he appeared to be weighing his options. "Sure," he said at last. "Why not." He seemed to smile genuinely at her. "One second." Then he disappeared back into his room, the door shutting behind him. Half a second later though and he reappeared, Leatherman in hand.

Wordlessly Raven led him across the hall to her room. She unlocked her door and pushed it open. Her borrowed computer geek immediately saw the three boxes in the middle of her floor and walked over without preamble.

He knelt down and grabbed the box that was opened. Raven heard his displeasing thoughts towards packing peanuts and why some companies still use them loud and clear as he muttered something to that effect.

The first box contained the computer monitor. Her geek pulled it out of the box, spilling remarkably very few peanuts in the process.

"Where do you want this?" he asked as he brushed off the peanuts that stuck to its frame with static.

"On the desk," she answered as though it were obvious.

He paid no heed to the tone, instead focusing on carrying the monitor to the desired location.

Raven claimed a seat on her bed and watched in detached fascination as he somehow managed to assemble and successfully boot her machine in less than fifteen minutes. He worked efficiently enough, and the only thoughts she could glean from his mind were the occasion 'insert tab A into slot B' type setup remarks.

"Ta-da!" The geek stood up and admired his work. All of the wires had been secured with twist ties and the surge protector was neatly bundled. It almost looked… beautiful… in that mechanical sort of way. "Do you need any help setting up or are you good to go?"

Raven was startled out of her trance-like stare at her new machine. "Uh… isn't it set up now?"

The geek smirked and shook his head in mock despair. Then he proceeded to seat himself at her desk. The setup screen was displayed and he began filling in the required information.

_Name: Raven Roth._

"How do you know my name?" she asked, her voice cold and suspicious. She was reading over his shoulder.

The geek chuckled slightly and kicked a discarded box with his foot. Raven looked down. Sure enough, her name was printed there plain as day on the address label.

Raven's eyes darkened but she said nothing.

The boy clicked to the next screen, and then the next, and the next until the desktop appeared again. However, as soon as it appeared, a blur of keyboard strokes and the flash of many screens and Raven saw her personal information strewn about almost casually.

"What are you doing?"

Dick Grayson froze mid-action. Her voice. Low, deadly, reminiscent.

"I'm setting up your machine," he replied as though it were obvious and signifying that her tone meant nothing to him. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"The act requires your pasting my name all over the place?" she asked, backing off a bit but nowhere near calm.

"Not your name," her responded evenly. "Just your user ID." A slight smirk. "If you're sensitive about it I could always leave you to finish the rest. You should have received a handout with the directions..."

Raven quietly fumed. She didn't like how involved this process turned out to be, and she didn't like how this boy she couldn't easily read seemed to know so much about her, and she really didn't like how she realized that she'd be screwed if she sent him away without allowing him to finish.

"Go on," she practically growled, defeated.

A satisfied smirk from the geek and he was typing away again. Two more screens opened, were typed at, and closed. Then the desktop appeared. For a second it looked as though he was done, then another screen popped up. Once again he filled in her user ID as well as a few other computer-type things whose purpose sailed over her head. Then suddenly he pushed back in the chair and stood up.

"You're all set," he said casually. "All you need to do is set and confirm your password for the network. Then you'll be able to get to the web and all sorts of fun Hudson U network places."

"Oh… goodie…"

"You're welcome," he said, his tone no longer amused or sarcastic. In fact, Raven found herself doubting that it was even _friendly_. Without another word he strolled towards the door and left the room without so much as a backwards glance. Raven stared after him for a moment before scowling slightly and heading over to her PC to see just what the geek had done.

* * *

Dick Grayson returned to his dorm room and barely managed to avoid slamming the door. He flipped the lock almost angrily and grabbed his wireless headphones from the bed where he'd discarded them earlier. He put them on and grabbed the remote for his entertainment center. A few clicks later and his mood music was blaring privately.

Dick pulled a storage container out from under his bed and resumed the assembly of a wireless surveillance system he 'borrowed' from Wayne Enterprises' New York City office building for 'testing' purposes, humming casually along to:

_It's a contradiction and I can't take it any fucking way! Can you feel it? I gotta live with it everyday. I can't take the pressure, I'm going insane! Now go away!_

Dick liked listening to music. It was his escape; his way of making everything just go away for a while. It cleared his head. Helped him think. Drained his emotions away and left only cold, detached, rational thoughts in their wake.

… Thoughts like 'who was this 'Raven Roth?' He hadn't really focused on it then, but thinking back, her dyed purple hair didn't have any roots, and it takes quite a bit of effort to dye your eyebrows and eye lashes to the same color. And those purple contacts that upon closer consideration weren't contacts at all. Then there was the jewel she wore on her forehead that seemed to change colors in the light…

Dick grumbled and sighed and switched off his music. He abandoned the half-finished surveillance system and went over to his desk to boot up his laptop. The first level of investigation was to type 'Raven Roth' into google. Not surprisingly, nothing turned up. Undaunted, Dick then keyed over to a yellow pages site. He typed in the address he remembered from Raven's computer boxes… Voila! The apartment in question was leased to one 'Angela Roth.' … Who has been the tenant since 1 October 1999. … Odd that the apartment is now for rent…

Another google search, this time for 'Angela Roth'…

_Jackpot!_

Newspaper articles detailing a missing persons report from 1984. Then a police bulletin—an old APB, mentionings in_ America's Most Wanted_ from 1993. A murder—no, multiple murders, at a church in California in 1985. The only survivor, Angela Roth. The prime suspect, Angela Roth. Eight male victims, four female. Another link—crime scene photos leaked to the press… 404, page not found. Another link—Angela Roth declared legally dead by her family in 1995… a private memorial ceremony… a marker placed on the family plot.

Police notices post 1993: … none.

Dick Grayson sighed and rubbed his chin. Official channels had given him leads. Time to see where _un_official channels took them.

Dick rebooted his laptop and interrupted its processes with specific keystrokes. The screen blinked and then went dark. A few more keystrokes… a lengthy pause…

Success! A secure login screen… username and password entered… operation failed… steps repeated with a different name and password… operation failed… steps repeated with the third and set of data—a rather ingenious system if not a tedious one, requiring three different sets of data to be entered in precisely the correct order—which was on a rotating module that one had best memorize.

The screen blinked to black… a tense moment of waiting… the screen blinked to life again but before any of the usual displays were seen a message window opened. Dick didn't know whether to laugh or groan.

_So you've figured out that you still have access to this resource. You would do well to keep in mind exactly why that is. And remember, every time you access this system I'll know about it._

"Typical Bruce…"

The message blipped into nothingness and the machine resumed its course. Seconds later and Dick Grayson was remotely logged in to the Central Computer in the

Batcave. With a satisfied air he cracked his knuckles and began his search anew.

Twenty minutes later and he'd read all he needed to read. Angela Roth was a runaway from a small suburban town in southern California. To say the least she fell in with the wrong crowd: a 'church' in Santa Monica whose members were accused by the radical Right of a slue of 'crimes' that ranged anywhere from sinful listening to 'rock and roll music' straight up through blatant and overt Satanic cultism. Angela became a member and was living in a rented room in the church's basement.

This is where the police report took on a decidedly… grizzly… tone.

Witnesses claimed that Angela Roth, in the company of twelve others—eight men and four women, entered the church wearing white robes around nine p.m. Wednesday the first of May, 1985. No one saw anyone leave. When ordinary parishioners arrived the following Sunday they discovered… only a stench at first. That led them to the basement—Angela's room.

Dick looked at the crime scene photos and then wished he hadn't. There was an… alter… of sorts. And candles that had burned themselves out. Blurred images of iconography… knocked over chalices of what Dick assumed was wine…

And bodies… or parts of them… everywhere. Blood everywhere… the walls… the ceiling… _Those gowns were white? …_

Dick shivered and changed the screen. The police report returned to view, sans photos.

Angela's body wasn't found amidst the carnage. No traces of her were ever found again. Well, that's not exactly true. With the advent of DNA testing, evidence from the crime scene was reevaluated. Much of it was inadmissible due to age and decay, but the splatter on the alter cloth was revealed to be the blood of Angela Roth. With her having been missing without a trace since the night of the murders (timed as late Wednesday-early Thursday) she was officially declared a victim and her family was granted consent to declare her dead—murdered—and place a marker for her soul upon consecrated ground.

The world considered Angela Roth deceased.

How can a dead woman rent an apartment in New Jersey for four years?

Assuming that Raven was typical college age she would have been born in '85 or '86, maybe '87…

Dick groaned. It physically hurt him to do so, but he reopened the file containing the crime scene photos. White gowns… oddly phallic idolatry… _May 1st… What's so special about May 1st?_

Dick bit his lip to quell the sudden nausea brought on by his next thought. He scrolled to the bottom of the page—farther than he had managed before. There was a grainy, black and white photo of Angela Roth, taken in 1983. Dick saw Raven's face staring back at him. Different coloring, but the exact same face.

"I wonder if your mom ever told you… you were the product of a fertility rite gone horribly, horribly wrong."

Dick sighed and logged out of the Bat Computer. Then he powered down his laptop. He wondered if Raven knew the details of her rather sordid beginnings. He wondered how Angela had managed to elude the authorities all this time while still providing for her daughter's well being. Er, that was assuming of course that she was raised by her mother. But then, the address on the computer boxes proves that well enough. Angela's name was on the apartment lease after all…

Dick stopped musing and went back to his headphones and his wireless surveillance equipment. He didn't want to think about Raven Roth and her likely beginnings, or about how her unique physical traits more than likely signaled metahuman DNA… or that the said DNA would have come from her father, whose identity remains unknown… except that Raven was most likely conceived during a Satanic fertility ritual…

No, Dick Grayson definitely did not want to contemplate such things. He scoffed. The Devil didn't exist.

Then he frowned.

Worse things did.

Dick clicked the remote and the entertainment center sprung to life.

_You take a mortal man and put him in control. Watch him become a god. Watch peoples heads a'roll… A'roll... Just like the pied piper led rats through the streets, we dance like marionettes, swaying to the symphony... Of destruction..._

* * *

Song credits: Metallica-_One_; And Justice For All  
Godsmack-_Bad Religion_; debut album  
Megadeath-_Symphony of Destruction_; Countdown to Extinction

AN- Everything revealed in this chapter about Raven, her mother, and the demon Trigon is found in the comics and touched on in the episodes _Nevermore_, _Switched_, and _The End 1-3_. Azarath is a place, a pocket dimension if you will, where Raven was born. Emotional control is the key to controlling Trigon's influence inside her, which manifests itself chiefly through rage.

When Raven came to Earth, the Teen Titans had been disbanded. She convinced them to reform in order to have people she trusted to help her keep control over her father. Robin formed the original Teen Titans, and Raven encouraged them to _re_form, which in a way also makes her a founding member of the group.

Raven is more empathic than telepathic, meaning that she can sense others emotions with crystal clarity but can only glean others' surface thoughts, enabling those who are trained to shield their thoughts from her. We have Dick being able to do this because Bruce taught him how. It's rather essential when dealing with villains like Scarecrow, Mad Hatter, Dr. Strange, etc. Bruce of course learned from the Martian Manhunter, but that's another story.

Raven's "magic words," Azarath Metrion Xinthos, aren't canon and mean absolutely nothing. She doesn't need to say anything to use her powers in the comics, and even in the cartoon she is seen commanding her telekinesis without them. Therefore we are of the opinion that the words have a more personal than practical reason for Raven: just like the charkas she adorns her costume with, they help her to focus her energies and maintain balance. They act as a safety net to make sure she doesn't go overboard, because her powers are linked to her emotions, and going overboard would be a bad thing.

Her other powers consist of empathic healing (as seen in _Fractured_) and the ability to project her thoughts into others' minds. That's probably what she did to Dr. Light in _Nevermore_, and how her fears were manifested in _Fear Itself_. The part where she uses her knowledge of others' thoughts and emotions to manipulate them is comic canon.


	3. Introducing Beast Boy

_A Hudson University Dorm Room_

Garfield Logan stood in front of the full-length mirror in his room. His gaze was impassive as he studied his reflection. It was a sight that he was all too familiar with. Then with a long-suffering sigh he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled knee-high socks over his feet. Once those were pulled as high as they would reach he grabbed a baggy pair of tan colored cargo pants and pulled them on over his boxers. A simple undershirt followed the pants, and Garfield tucked it in before securing the pants with a heavy belt. Another sigh and a button-down shirt was added over the undershirt, buttoned most of the way. A final glance in the mirror revealed his own dead eyes staring back at him.

It was a sight he had seen too many times.

Garfield pushed those thoughts away with yet another sigh and grabbed his trusty combat boots. These he laced up with a precision born of much practice. The cargo pants were then pulled down over the boots, their bottoms skirting the base of his ankles. Then Gar grabbed an antique pair of leather driving gloves—selected for their dexterity—and pulled then on up past his writs. Then a long, tan trench coat that hung to his knees and fell a bit long in the sleeves.

Now completely attired, he stopped for another look in the full-length mirror to be sure that his disguise was convincing for the role he had to play. Well, whether or not it would work, it was time to go. He grabbed a baseball cap and pulled the visor down low  
to help shadow his face as he grabbed his backpack and left the sanctity and safety of his private dorm room.

Today was the first day of classes in the summer session, required of all incoming students with… unorthodox… educational histories. Garfield snorted a bitter laugh at that thought. 'Unorthodox' wasn't exactly the word he would choose to describe his childhood. Then again, the words he would use generally aren't accepted in decent company.

He was still a toddler when his parents took him to the Congo. They were doctors—research scientists to be precise, working on the genome project. The isolated genetic codes over countless generations provided a uniquely perfect setting for their research. Of course, the conditions provided for other things as well, things both unexpected and unfortunate.

They had been there less than a year when Garfield had taken ill.

Experiments with genetic codes require routine contact with animals, and not all animals are healthy. Garfield came down with a disease that had no name. It never needed a name before, because no human was ever known to contract it. Nevertheless, it struck the son of Mark and Marie Logan, and it struck hard.

Their son lay dying. There was nothing they could do—all known medicines were failing or would kill him anyway through allergic reactions. All hope seemed lost, but never tell a pair of geneticists that their son is doomed to die. They buried themselves in their craft and finally came up with a solution that seemed to work: they cured one of the infected monkeys. They had the solution! It just… only worked in monkeys. However, that wasn't about to stop the doctors Logan. All they had to do was break down the barriers that distinguish human DNA from that of animals. No small task…

…Though not impossible…

They succeeded. Garfield lived, and recovered from his illness. There were catches, however; prices to pay. His skin turned green, every inch of it; and his hair, every last strand. Everything of Garfield Logan turned a lovely shade of forest green, even his beautiful brown eyes.

It's been that way ever since.

Fifteen years.

Fifteen years of metahuman existence, years he's lived every morning when he looks in the mirror. Fifteen years that he's lived with the scar of his disease.

Fifteen years he's lived with the last tangible memory he has of his parents.

Garfield Logan doesn't have many memories of his parents. They died in a boating accident when he was six. He vividly remembers the accident, from the color of the water, the temperature of the air, the sound the boat engines made when they exploded. But that was in the Congo, twelve years ago. Nothing else has survived in Gar's possession to remind him of his parents—save the gifts of his disease.

Fifteen years ago this May…

It's been a long road from there to here, a road full of false families and empty promises. Such is the life of one in 'the system'… who slips through its cracks… or occasionally breaks against them. A hard life. Never stable and never gratifying. Never… full. Always lonely. Always…

Green.

Now the green little boy was a slightly less little, green teenager. He had managed to survive social services, children's protective services, and a few other less honorable organizations. He'd been with his most recent foster family for a little over a year—a new record for him. Steve and Rita Dayton seemed nice enough; treated him with respect and respected his privacy. They helped him finish high school and encouraged him to go to college. They even supported his decision to deny the existence of _Space Trek, 2022_.

The green teenager known as Garfield Logan made his way across campus to his very first college class: summer session college writing. He entered a small lecture hall on the second floor of a stuffy brick building—obviously a holdover from the university's founding. A few other students had arrived ahead of him but the professor was still absent.

Garfield took a seat in the very back row of desks in the far corner away from the professor's lectern. From this vantage point he casually surveyed the crowd as he dropped his backpack and removed his trench coat, which he hung on the back of a chair. Seated in the same row as him yet in the opposite corner was some girl with an interesting dye job. She wore black jeans and a blue cotton top that seemed to bring out the shimmer in her hair. _Or was that just the fluorescent lights?_ She looked like an angel sitting there. Garfield couldn't help but stare, though he quickly shook himself out of it and resigned himself to the happy fact that goths were usually too introverted and miserably depressed to offer up any harsh remarks at his expense.

Two girls were gossiping in the next row up, and off to one side of them a boy was leaning back in his chair, softly snoring. In the next row another boy sat doodling in his notebook, and Garfield didn't need the nose of a bloodhound to sigh in disgust at the artist's choice of illegal extracurricular activities. A meek-looking girl sat in the front row wearing coke-bottle glasses and pigtails, the classic over-achiever. There's one in every class.

Gar then noted with interest as another student entered the room. He saw the newcomer's eyes sweep deliberately over the class. Garfield's eyes narrowed—he was sure he recognized the new kid from somewhere. He watched as the newcomer entered the rest of the way after seemingly having found what he was looking for—or not found it, whichever. He took a seat in the third row, which just so happened to be right by the door. Then once he was seated, it seemed that whatever airs of deliberation and purpose deflated. He was then just another student waiting for class to begin. Garfield sighed and pulled a notebook from his backpack. He hoped that there wouldn't be any more students in this class; he wasn't too fond of large crowds.

* * *

Raven sat in the back and surveyed the crowd with her third eye. The girl in front was fretting over whether or not she was supposed to have completed some sort of essay for the start of class today… the artist in the next row was wondering when the good parties were going to start happening… the slumbering jock was dreaming about some sporting championship… one girl was worried that her eye makeup was the wrong shade for her sweater and the other was conjuring up some rather inappropriate images of a boy Raven didn't recognize. She sighed to herself and closed her eyes, silently meditating to block out the extraneous noise.

Then another student entered. He breezed in past everyone and claimed the seat in the back corner without hesitation. His thoughts flurried at a mile a minute and disrupted Raven's concentration. She bit her lip as her senses were momentarily assailed. The newcomer was… jittery, almost frantic, but not in a panicked sort of way. No… No it was different. Almost…

Raven silently gasped.

_Instinctual._

Heightened awareness. Like an animal—a caged animal pacing back and forth before the bars. All outward displays covering one simple truth: it was scared out of its mind.

Raven chanced a glance in his direction. She caught him looking at her and he promptly jerked his head away. Her eyes narrowed.

_Is his skin… green?_

Then she heard it. From his mind. A replay. Students in another school, jeering and taunting him… their laughter echoing cruelly there inside his head. And then a name, a name called above all others: _Beast Boy! Beast Boy!_ They hooted and hollered and chased him away…

…And then the question.

_Will college be like that too?_

Raven sighed and tuned the rest of it out. It was starting to give her a headache anyway.

Just then another student entered the classroom. Raven instantly recognized her computer geek from the other day. He wore a pair of blue jeans with a tee shirt that was mostly obscured by a black hooded zip-up sweatshirt. His black hair was wet—freshly showered, and brushed casually out of his face. That didn't stop a few wisps of bangs from falling out of place and trying for his eyes, however; though he didn't seem to notice. Raven caught herself staring, having instinctually tried to glean his thoughts and finding that same darkness as before. She shook it off and directed her attentions elsewhere, glad for the idea that she can study his blankness instead of focusing on the rambling and disjointed thoughts of others.

* * *

Class progressed much as Garfield thought it would. Fortunately enough no one recognized his name when it was announced at roll call. Or at least, they had the good decency to not say anything if they did. And no one commented on his green skin, if in fact they noticed at all. The concept that no one noticed was an appealing thought if however improbable. Yet still, Gar couldn't quite bring himself to think that they noticed and yet refrained from commenting. He didn't have enough faith in humanity yet.

Today was Tuesday. After the writing class—which shouldn't be a problem aside from all the hours of homework and essay writing—Gar had three other classes during this summer session. After writing he had a break for lunch and then it was off to introductory French. Gar spoke French when he was little—missionaries and other doctors spoke it in the Congo when he was there, but it's been a long time and he's sorely out of practice. He could only hope that he'd remember enough to get by.

Tuesday's schedule would repeat itself on Thursdays. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays he was blessed with the privilege of sleeping in before having his last two classes in the afternoon. Right after lunch he had his math class, college algebra. Then it was off to the rudimentary literature course, which was the essential cramming in of every novel that should have been read in high school. Gar wasn't sure which class of the Monday-Wednesday-Friday schedule he was going to hate the most.

* * *

Math class. Most definitely math class.

Sunday night. Garfield had been attending classes for nearly a week now. He had an essay due on Thursday on his motivations for going to college for his writing class. He needed to have the days, weeks, months, and measurement units memorized for a French vocabulary quiz the same day. Oh and there were the twenty simple equations he needed to solve and hand in tomorrow, at the same time he needed to have the entirety of _The Great Gatsby_ read for literature class.

He was on page thirty-four.

Gar had the French down pat. The essay was outlined in his word processor and waiting to be fleshed out, and currently twenty unsolved math problems were staring him in the face. And it was seven p.m. If he got all those equations done by eight then he could be up all night reading _Gatsby_ and then sleep until class time.

It was a good plan, but there was just one catch: he had absolutely no clue how to solve the equations.

The professor's instruction was useless, the directions in the book even more so. Gar contemplated blowing off the math in favor of the reading, but if he did that then there's no guarantee that he'd find someone to help him with the equations on such short notice. And he needed help, or else he wouldn't learn the material, and he just _knew_ that a pop quiz was going to follow the discussion of the homework problems. Gar grumbled, sighed, whined, and did his damnedest to come up an excuse, but they all fell short in the end. He had no choice now: he needed to seek out extra help.

After even more heartrending deliberation, Garfield formulated a plan. Dick Grayson was in his every class—he finally realized where he'd seen him before: you don't spend a few years in Gotham without seeing Bruce Wayne or his ward on the news at least once. And Dick Grayson seemed the stereotypical loner. Gar never saw him sit with anyone in particular during class, nor did he ever see him at lunch and dinner either. He lived in a single at the other end of the hall and listened to a rather eclectic mix of music that one could only hear if they paused right outside his door.

Translated, Dick didn't have a clique to answer to that would take exception to the notion of their comrade aiding and abetting the 'green guy,' the 'beast boy,' or whatever the current flavor of taunt was now. Dick was smart, Gar knew, from being in class with him, so should be more than capable of helping him. And Dick seemed… well… Gar didn't get the feeling that he would be rejected out of hand. There was something about this loner ward of Bruce Wayne that made Gar feel like they had something in common. Perhaps it was the whole being orphans thing. It made him oddly curious to want to get to know Dick Grayson.

It was that curiosity, spurred on by his flimsy logic about the nature of the reclusive loner at the end of the hall that made Garfield pull on his gloves, trench, and hat before grabbing his math book and notebook and heading for the door.

He paused just outside what he knew to be Dick Grayson's door. The two had walked back from classes together before. Well, more of _beside_ each other than _with_ each other, but Gar had seen Dick go into that room so he knew where he lived even with the absence of the little red bird the RA had crafted to reveal their names. Gar listened intently with his keen hearing… nothing. No music playing right now. But wait—rustling! Dick was in!

A tentative knocking. A pause. Another knock, more deliberate this time.

Suddenly the door swung open. Dick stood in the doorway and his gaze immediately lowered to the petit form in the dark hat and trench coat standing before him, holding a book and notebook beneath one arm. Garfield seemed to wilt under the sudden embarrassment. He hadn't realized Grayson was so tall…

"Um… Hi?" he managed to croak. If he had been attempting to make eye contact rather than study the sparkles in his shoelaces he would have seen his would-be tutor smirk.

"Hi," Dick returned, his voice bland. "Garfield, right?"

"Ah… yeah," Garfield forced himself to look up. "Garfield Logan—I have class with you. Well, classes with you—I mean, several. That is—" His babbling was interrupted by a slight laugh. It wasn't a cold laugh however, though it did silence him.

"Writing, math, lit, and French," Dick listed.

Garfield smiled—he hadn't been told to piss off yet. "Yeah!" he agreed. Then he seemed to falter and his eyes found his shoelaces again.

"Did you need something?" Dick asked. His tone was mild and betrayed only curiosity. When Gar stole a glance up Dick did his best to offer a reassuring smile. He figured that social interactions were quite difficult for one with such… obvious… reasons to be ostracized by his peers.

"Well…" Garfield choked down his fears and forced himself to look Grayson in the eye. "Well, since we have so many classes together—I mean, I've seen you in class—not that I was, you know, paying any extra attention—what I mean is, er, well, I know you're smart n'all—smarter than me. And, you see, well, I was hoping—"

"Which subject?" Dick interrupted the breathless babble. He raised an eyebrow just slightly in a rather amusing imitation of Alfred.

This seemed to put Garfield at ease. He smiled genuinely, lighting up his face in such a way that Dick realized how rare a sight it must be.

"Math," Gar chirped excitedly. "I don't understand the homework one bit and the adjunct they've saddled us with is too busy working on his dissertation to offer convenient office hours."

Dick laughed as he stepped back and pushed his door open in a wordless invitation for Garfield to enter; and the green teen did so, smiling all the way.

"Have a seat anywhere," Dick directed as he pulled down the monitor on his laptop, hiding what Gar thought was a half-finished essay before the screen was banished from view.

Garfield dropped to the floor—onto the rather expensive looking area rug—and began spreading out his materials. Dick grabbed his own notebook and joined him effortlessly.

"Thanks so much," said Garfield with much enthusiasm.

Dick smiled but said nothing as he flipped through his notebook for the section containing his algebra notes. In all honesty he was well above the level of math they were requiring him to take, but the school assured him that after this class was on his records he would be able to sit down with his advisor to find a more suitable math starting point for him. Yet the diligent student that Dick was trying to be demanded that he take notes in class.

"No problem," he said as he found the appropriate page. "Here, see if my notes make any sense to you."

Gar nodded and took Dick's notebook. He seemed to be concentrating awfully hard on the material at hand.

Dick studied his new tutee with a critical yet lackadaisical eye. He'd recognized the name 'Garfield Logan' instantly of course, having been guilty of watching the cheesy _Star Trek_ rip-off that was _Space Trek, 2022_. Reruns were on at about the time Batman and Robin would return from an uneventful patrol and the show was just amusingly, painfully, awful enough for them to unwind to before going to bed. When the show was cancelled, the teenaged actor Garfield Logan disappeared from Hollywood.

So when he showed up in Dick's writing class the former detective's apprentice was naturally curious—and with good reason. Clandestine research revealed that Garfield Logan was a metahuman—the result of the genetic experiment that saved his life as a young child. Garfield's 'gifts,' as the circle of metahumans would call them, include the green skin and hair, heightened senses of smell and hearing as well as low-level darkvision. Rumors also had it that Garfield could transform into any animal you could name, voluntarily and at will. This fact alone was enough to keep his profile in the Bat computer's archives.

Records for Garfield Logan are patchy at best, though thankfully more complete than the ones on Raven Roth across the hall. The disease that nearly killed him and whose cure created a metahuman struck when Garfield was only three. Then his parents died in a boating accident when he was six. A close fiend of the Logans, King Tawaba, took it upon himself to raise their only son, feeling that it was his final duty to them. After all, their medicines helped to save his tribe from some dreaded European disease.

King Tawaba was a good surrogate father to Garfield and the tribe was more than welcoming of the little orphan. However, all good things must end eventually. When Gar was eight something happened within the tribe. Police and Interpol reports were sketchy and incomplete at best, but it was verified that a number of tribal warriors were killed. When the dust settled after those deaths Garfield Logan had disappeared along with the tribe's shaman. Gar was missing and feared dead.

Then in 1995 Interpol received a call from the Gotham Police Department. They had two cadavers on their hands whose descriptions and fingerprints matched those of two mercenaries on several national wanted lists across the globe. These mercenaries, apparently dead from drug overdoses that just screamed 'organized crime hit' from the other evidence at the scene, turned out to have been linked to an illegal poaching ring in Africa that had seemingly gone underground and was yet to be cracked.

Meanwhile back in the Congo, Tawaba's people had been coordinating with the authorities to try and crack down on seemingly random inter-tribal skirmishes that had sprung up in the aftermath of the deaths of their tribesmen. They believed that something sinister and evil was at work and the authorities put up with the 'voodoo' because hardly any of the colonist-influenced civilized population spoke enough languages to be effective in the investigation without the tribe's linguistic and navigational aid.

This investigation led to the ruins of a looted temple—and the remains of the body of the shaman who'd gone missing with Garfield Logan. If the authorities were to believe their tribal guides then they finally had an explanation for where the members of organized crime were able to get the cash to furnish their increasingly large and overbold forays into all things illegal—things like supplying stolen US and British military weapons to remote African tribes to try and escalate tension and create a war-zone dangerous enough to discourage governmental involvement from everyone including the likes of Interpol and the Red Cross.

Interpol believed that the reason the poaching seemed to have stopped was because the criminals found a better source of income in invaluable religious artifacts and gold from the looted and ruined temple. The local authorities believed that the recent tribal skirmishes were meant as a diversion from something even deadlier than natives toting AK-47s.

Even with all of this progress, neither the local authorities nor Interpol were able to piece together exactly _what_ the criminal activity was. The locals refused to step on the toes of tribes with itchy trigger fingers—corruption in their own military most likely to blame and so the investigation came to a grinding halt after the disappearance of the Interpol agents sent in to investigate against the government's will.

That is, of course, until two bodies showed up at a morgue in Gotham. When a low-level crime boss was implicated in the deaths of the mercenaries along with the distribution of unique designer drugs to school children the Gotham PD received some surreptitious help from their resident vigilante. To save his hide after a display of good cop/bad cop between Gotham PD and Interpol, the boss turned rat. He had already implicated all of his more prestigious clients, but threats made behind closed doors and out of the hearing of Commissioner Gordon convinced him to reveal the identity of his supplier. He gave the officers a hotel address in Kinsbasa, in what was then Zaire.

The authorities that were so unwilling to help before now were itching at the chance to aid in the investigation—most likely because it didn't involve them roaming through the jungles and getting shot at. The hotel was raided and arrests were made. The designer drugs on American streets were engineered locally in Zaire and the entire drug ring went under.

But that was just the tip of the iceberg. Fingers were pointed and more arrests were made in Nairobi, which led to a large bust in Zanzibar that revealed ties to anyone and everyone from corporate America to former Soviet nations. Information gathered here led to further investigation in Zaire, which led to the discovery of an abandoned biological weapons research facility. The work suggested private—and criminally intended—research of the Ebola virus. Long since cleared out, the paper trail was virtually untraceable, even though the unofficial reports point the finger at an offshoot of Lexcorp in Kyrgyzstan.

The temple raid gave the criminals the money to start the biological weapons plant as well as the designer drug research and manufacturing process. When the temple riches ran out in that very quick manor of illegally obtained wealth the drug trade was up and running and providing the necessary income to keep the weapons research going. The tribal infighting was the deterrent necessary to keep the authorities away from the true crime going on, but only for so long. When the authorities finally got wind of it the entire place was liquidated and international blame fell on the Kyrgyz for trying to find something with which to fight the Russians. However, only the highest authorities in Interpol—and Gotham's own caped crusader—were able to piece together that the entire Kyrgyz government was the well-paid cover for the real pursuer of biological weapons: Lexcorp. Blame fell on a government that could care less, and nothing was done even at the UN level, and no one could prove Lexcorp's involvement so nothing was done about Luthor either.

Yet victory was attained in breaking up the drug ring, which solved the original poaching problem, and in the naïve belief that there were no more weapons research facilities in the African Jungle the case was closed. Every dot from Tawaba's shaman to the temple to the mercenaries to organized crime to Lexcorp had been connected and the authorities were pleased.

Yet where was Garfield Logan?

That was the question that plagued Dick Grayson as he read through Interpol report after Interpol report. If Garfield had disappeared with the shaman then where was he? Was he involved somehow? Granted he was only eight at the time, but his metahuman abilities tend to shift suspicion.

Dick finally found mentions of Garfield Logan in Child Protective Services documents. Currently he was living with the couple that won a long and lengthy custody battle for him against Nicholas Galtry, the Logans' ex lawyer. The battle was intense, the Daytons thought that Galtry was an unfit guardian and sued for custody of the only son of their longtime friends. Gotham PD and Interpol, in turn, had been investigating Galtry in connection with the organized crime syndicate responsible for the mess in Zaire because he had been legal counsel for one low-level crime boss. Galtry was eventually proven guilty and is serving time in Leavanworth thanks to the iron fist of Interpol, and the Daytons won custody.

However, the Daytons weren't granted custody until the verdict came down on Galtry. Garfield was bounced between foster care and orphanages for the entire five years of the custody battle. Dick, reading from the present and working his way back, finally found where Garfield resurfaced on the proverbial radar. In 1997 a homeless shelter in Gotham called Social Services on Garfield's behalf. He was then claimed by Galtry, whom he stayed with until the Daytons heard about it. The custody battle started in 1998, and it was foster homes and orphanages until 2003 when the Daytons won custody. It was during the stint in foster homes that he was picked up by a talent scout and cast in the worst television show to air in the last ten years.

According to Hudson University records, Garfield Logan is the adoptive son of Steve and Rita Dayton, and he's attending the summer program because the myriad of different school systems made it next to impossible to place him at the correct level for classes. And so… here he is, studying math on the floor of the one who spent three consecutive nights researching his past to determine if his presence was a threat or not.

The detective's apprentice finally concluded that just because everyone around him was involved in criminal activity that doesn't mean that Garfield himself was involved. A victim of circumstances mostly in Dick's eye, he figured that the best thing to do was give the benefit of the doubt. And, as he watched with growing sympathy the small green teenager struggling to both conceal his supposed deformity and grasp the concepts of basic algebra, Dick was practically certain that Garfield wasn't the criminal type.

"Here," he said, kneeling down next to the frustrated metahuman. "What's giving you trouble?"

"Everything!" Garfield groaned dejectedly, closing his eyes in defeat. He heard Dick snicker but not maliciously.

"Ok… what's not giving you trouble then?"

Garfield frowned in thought. "Numbers are for math, letters are for English. Why'd somebody have to combine the two?"

"Well the letters stand for numbers that we don't know yet," Dick explained.

Garfield frowned. "How do they expect us to solve these problems if we don't have all the numbers?"

Dick stifled another laugh. He remembered asking Alfred similar questions. Shortly thereafter Bruce took on the task of math lessons…

"Well that's what the equations are for," he explained. "The point of these math problems is to find out what the letter stands for."

Garfield blinked and then returned his gaze to the book. "So… that's what 'solve for x' means?" Dick nodded and Garfield smiled. He then returned his attention to the book. "So… how do I do that?"

Dick quieted his sigh. "Ok, copy the first equation into your notebook." Gar patiently did as instructed. "Now, do you remember what professor Wildman said about how to solve equations?"

Garfield glanced at his own notebook. "The equation must be equal on both sides," he read, quoting.

"And?"

"And… I have to-to isolate the variable!" He finished proudly.

Dick nodded.

"Ok…" Garfield seemed to be waiting patiently for more instruction. "Can you do that?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"What's a 'variable'?"

Dick forced himself to not laugh or even comment on the question. Actually, for some reason, he seemed very intently focused on not accidentally offending the deceptively small metahuman on his floor. In a way, he reminded Dick of a frightened young boy when he first arrived at a big and drafty Wayne Manor without any real knowledge of life outside of the circus.

"'Variable' is a fancy term for the letter you were complaining about."

Garfield's eyes widened in surprise. He looked quickly from the textbook to Dick and back again. "You mean all I have to do is get that x all by itself?"

Dick couldn't stop the chuckle as he nodded again.

"Why didn't Wildman say so!"

"… He did."

"Oh." A pause in which Garfield studied the equation intently in light of this new information. "Uh… how do I do that?"

"What do your notes say?"

"Uh… To add, subtract, multiply, and divide, being sure that both sides of the equation are equal, until I'm left with an isolated variable."

"Well, you can add, subtract, multiply, and divide, right?"

"Of course I can!" Garfield replied defensively. Dick sat back and raised his hands to signal no offense was meant. "Sorry." Garfield muttered to the floor.

"That's okay," Dick reassured. "I was just going to say that simple math in equation solving is really no different than simple math everywhere else."

"Huh?"

Dick suddenly shifted into a sitting position as he came up with a different approach to helping Garfield learn algebra. "Ok, think of it this way. Look at the equation again. What signs do you see?"

Garfield took a look. "Uh… a plus sign and an equal sign."

"Alright so that means that the equation involves addition. What's the opposite of addition?"

Garfield took a moment to think about it. "S-subtraction?" he asked meekly.

Dick nodded. "We undo addition with subtraction," he clarified. "Now, what two things are being added?"

Garfield looked again. "Uh… 4x plus 14."

"Right," Dick reassured—it seemed important. "Now, since we solve equations by getting that x all by itself, what's the first thing we have to do?"

Garfield took a second to think about it. "Get rid of the four?"

"Not yet," Dick corrected. "In order to get the x by itself, we have to first get the 4x by itself."

Garfield blinked. "The fourteen?"

Dick nodded. "How do you get rid of a +14?"

"Uh… you subtract fourteen?"

"And if we have to keep both sides of the equation equal…"

"I give the fourteen to the other side?"

Once again Dick fought the urge to sigh. "Not quite. You subtract fourteen from both sides."

"… Oh."

Dick sensed that his tutee didn't quite grasp the concept. "It's not as complicated as it sounds," he said. "I'll walk you through it." Garfield nodded hesitantly. "First, on the next line of your notebook, write a -14 right below the +14."

Garfield did as he was told and then returned his gaze to Dick expectantly.

"Ok. Now write another -14 below the 110 on the other side of the equals sign." Once again Garfield did what he was told. "Now all you have is two subtraction problems to solve!"

Garfield looked to Dick and then to his paper and back again and his face lit up in a grin that reminded Dick exactly why he offered to help in the first place. He solved 110-14 and got 96. Then he paused when he got to the other side.

"Uh…"

"Don't worry about the 4x," Dick explained. "All you're solving is 14-14."

"Oh… Zero!"

"Right! Now on the next line write the new equation." Garfield hesitated a moment before writing 4x + 0 96. "You don't need to write the plus zero," Dick explained.

Garfield laughed at himself and erased the line to rewrite the equation. "Is it done?" he asked tentatively.

Dick smiled and shook his head. "Not quite. The x isn't alone yet."

"So, how do I do that?"

"Well," Dick began, "4x is the same as saying 'four times x.'"

"Times… multiplication?"

Dick nodded.

"So if four times x equals 96, then I have to…" Dick waited for Garfield to reason it out on his own. "Divide both sides by four!"

"See, not as hard as it looks," said Dick with an encouraging smile.

In a flurry of writing Garfield wound up with x 24 written in his notebook as the answer for the first equation. "Di—Did I do that right?" he asked, staring at the notebook so he wouldn't have to meet Dick's eyes.

"Perfect."

Gar smiled with reckless abandon and Dick had no choice but to return the gesture.

"So…" Dick said at length. "Do you think you can do the next one?"

Garfield redirected his gaze to the textbook. He then copied the equation over to his notebook and stared at it some more. "I—I think so." He looked to Dick, who merely nodded. Gar then followed the same steps he used before, occasionally looking to Dick for verification, which was given with a simple nod or shake of the head. After about five minutes the problem was solved correctly.

"There you go," said Dick. "And the next one?"

Once again the process repeated itself. This time Gar didn't need any input from Dick as he completed the problem. When he was done he looked up expectantly.

"Do the next one," Dick directed firmly.

Garfield's smile fell slightly but he did as instructed. Unseen, Dick bit his lip and silently sighed, a silent rebuke of his slip.

Meanwhile Gar spent quite a bit of time on this equation since it was more involved than the previous two. He didn't dare look to Dick though, perceiving that in some way his tutor was testing him. Of course he had no way of knowing how accidentally true that was, and so nevertheless he strove to solve the problem swiftly and correctly.

"I-is it right?" he asked tentatively when he was done. "It was longer than the others." Dick's eyes narrowed just slightly as he studied the math. Gar began to get nervous but then Dick smiled.

"It's right," he conceded with a nod. "You'll notice that no matter how big and complicated the problems look, you use the exact same steps to solve them. Just sometimes you have to use more of them."

Garfield nodded as though a great secret of the universe had just been revealed to him.

"Do you think you can finish the rest of them on your own?"

Gar studied the other problems in the textbook briefly before nodding ever so slightly. "Could you, ya know, uh, check em for me when I'm done?" he stammered. "Just in case?"

"Sure," Dick said, forcing himself to smile. "Why don't you finish them here? I have to work on my essay for writing class. Just let me know if you need anything."

Garfield smiled brightly and nodded fervently. Dick nodded approvingly in return as he stood up. He went back to his desk and opened his laptop. Soon the soft symphony of laptop keystrokes filled the room, punctured every so often by the harsh sound of an eraser grating across paper.

"Is it just me," Gar said eventually, "or is it hot in here?"

Dick smirked and swiveled in his chair. He glanced at the thermostat he had installed to regulate the heat in his room. It was quite a project, involving generous uses of stealth and several harried phone calls to Alfred because the radiators were verifiable antiques, but Dick had managed to isolate his room from the central heating of the rest of the dorm. His radiator was now controlled directly by the programmable thermostat on the wall by the door.

"It's sixty-eight," he said neutrally. "Maybe you'd feel cooler if you took off the hat, trench, and gloves…"

Garfield blushed noticeably—which is saying something given his green skin. "I, uh, well…"

Dick snickered and Garfield practically bowed to the floor.

"It's ok," he said quietly. "I can finish in my own room. Thanks for your help."

Dick didn't know what to say or do and so he merely watched as Gar packed his things and all but fled from the room. He wasn't so naïve as to wonder if it was something he said, however. Instead he sighed, stood up, locked and his door behind Garfield's exit. He thought about returning to his essay, but he had time and for some reason felt like being lazy. Instead he grabbed the remote for his entertainment center and clicked it on. Lyrics washed over him as he collapsed down onto his bed, his eyes fixed distantly on an old publicity poster for Haly's Circus on his door.

_Crawling in my skin… these wounds they will not heal. Fear is how I fall… confusing what is real… _

* * *

Song credits: _Crawling_; Linkin Park-_Hybrid Theory_

AN- Beast Boy's parents were indeed research scientists in the Congo, and he did get his powers from that disease. However, he's a little green human, he doesn't look like a Martian. The pointed ears and sharper teeth are assumed to be a choice on his part, to be explored eventually.

Everything from how he got his disease to how his parents died to his adoption by the African tribe is found in comics. However, all that's said after that is that the shaman didn't like him and kidnapped him. Two American thugs were supposed to loot that temple, but they failed and they took Garfield instead, thinking that his abilities would bring profit. Depending on which comic you read, Gar spent some time being forced into petty criminal activity before being rescued by Galtry. The custody battle is also canon, as is Galtry's shady motivations. However, everything in canon is very dated and left large gaps. Therefore the everything about the genome project, Interpol, drug trafficking, and biological weapons were invented by the authors to modernize the history and provide plausibility.

It's also canon that BB is a wannabe actor and he did star in the short-lived television show _Space Trek 2022_ before becoming a Titan. DC wanted to create something akin to the first Star Trek series in concept, but couldn't say that due to copyright laws.

The names of Garfield's current foster parents are also canon. This story was written before season 5 aired, and in our version Beast Boy was not a part of the Doom Patrol. Whether or not he knew of his foster parents' alternate lifestyles remains to be seen.


	4. Summer fun

"Grayson! Hey Grayson!"

Dick jumped at the sound of his name and spun completely around. He landed nimbly in time to see Garfield Logan round the corner of building and call out to him again.

"Hi Gar," he said dryly, amused at his friend's enthusiasm.

"Hey man," Gar said when he'd caught up with Dick at last. "I just wanted to let you know that I got an eighty seven on that math test."

Dick smiled genuinely at his young algebra protégé. "That's great Gar."

"Pffft, I'll bet you got a ninety eight or something."

Dick smirked. "Not quite."

"Ha! Well, whatever man. Look, I just wanted to say that I'm, you know, all grateful for your takin' the time to, ah…"

Dick forced himself not to laugh. He and Gar had been doing their math homework together for the past two weeks and still the little green guy gets flustered in casual conversation.

"You're welcome," Dick interrupted mercifully.

Garfield grinned a broad and plastic grin. "Well anyway," he continued. "To show my appreciation tonight _I'm_ buying us pizza at Omega's!"

Dick's look of surprise and delight was short lived, however.

"Uh, I already have plans for tonight, Gar," he said, watching in regret as the smile melted from Garfield's face. "Raven and I were going to work on the Literature Project tonight."

"Oh."

Dick hated the look on Garfield's face right now. It made him feel as though he'd just kicked a puppy. "But we're going to have to stop and eat _sometime_," he added quickly. "Why don't the three of us go? Oh, you won't have to pay for her or anything." Dick waited expectantly for the smile to return to Garfield's face, and it did… sort of.

"That's okay man," Gar said with quiet dejection. "I don't think she likes me."

Dick snorted a laugh. "I wouldn't worry," he said. "I'm not sure she likes _me_ either."

* * *

Dick was skimming through _The Gotham Post_ online. There was a large write-up on the front page about Wayne Enterprises and their philanthropic activities as of late and how that was bolstering their stock this quarter. Dick Grayson, shareholder, couldn't help but smile at that. 

Then on the next page an editorial comparing the urban legend of Batman to a _real_ superhero, Superman. From the photo of the Man of Steel, Dick could have sworn that Clark actually enjoys wearing those tights…

His musings were cut short by a knock on his door. Dick opened the window to his security program and saw that it was Raven. He sighed, closed the window and shut the laptop. There was work to be done.

"I brought Poe," she said tonelessly when he opened the door. He smirked and let her in. She went immediately to the small table he had against the wall and dropped a large, antiquated leather tome with a shuddering thud.

"I made handouts for Byron," Dick added, handing her a folder. She took it from him and casually flipped through it.

"You've have a talent for PowerPoint," she droned, more like stating a fact than offering a compliment.

"And you're supposed to have a talent for poetry," he added. Then, pointing at the book on the table: "Are there bookmarks in there?"

"There's a sheet of notebook paper folded in the front of the book," she said almost condescendingly if her voice wasn't so flat. "I've written down the pages and titles you should look at."

"Thanks," Dick responded, matching her tone in a way that didn't exactly convey the meaning of the word. He then looked at her expectantly. Finally she spoke.

"Let's get this over with," she said on heels of a tired yet exasperated sigh. She sad down heavily in a chair at the table and flipped the folder open to more closely examine the handouts Dick had printed for her. "You weren't very… thorough," she said at length.

"If you put too much on the handout then the audience will spend more time reading than listening to you," Dick explained. "_Your_ copy is in the back."

Raven flipped to the end and… smirked? "I… stand corrected," she admitted as she studied the three page outline Dick provided for her benefit.

"I can only hope you were so generous with the Poe."

"Look for yourself."

The two spent the next half hour silently studying the material at hand. The assignment was to prepare a presentation for the class to go along with an obnoxiously long paper on the life and works of a famous poet. Of course they didn't get to choose their subject matter on their own and it an amusing bit of irony Dick was assigned to research Edgar Allen Poe while Raven was given Gordon, Lord Byron. The two then struck a deal, Raven would give Dick her best materials on Poe provided that he would take her notes on Byron and create the presentation handouts for her. They were now making sure that nothing was amiss in this sharing of tasks.

Just then another knock.

Dick smiled. "Dinner time."

"Huh?"

"Come on in Gar!"

The door burst open. "How'd you know it was me? Oh, hi Raven!"

"You said you wanted pizza," Dick reminded him. "Nothing stops you when you're hungry."

Garfield grinned bashfully. "So… you coming? My treat."

Dick looked expectantly to Raven only to see that she hadn't looked up from the handouts.

"I'm not hungry," she replied disinterestedly as thought she sensed their thoughts.

"How can you not be hungry for _pizza_?"

Raven glared half-heartedly at him. "I don't have the metabolism of a hobbit…"

"I'm not a hobbit!" Garfield insisted with amused indignation. "I'm a growing boy."

"Whatever." She may have spat the line if there were any oomph behind it. "Just don't eat any more vegetables. You don't need the chlorophyll."

Garfield's face went from forest green to a sickly shade of aquamarine. "What would you know about it?" he hissed. "You melodramatic anorexic goth of a Sylvia Plath wannabe!"

Raven's mouth contorted into a thin line and her eyes narrowed slightly. "Sylvia Plat stuck her head in an oven," she droned, her voice betraying nothing. I'd much rather go the route of Erzebet Bathory."

"_Enough!_"

Both Garfield and Raven turned surprised eyes at Dick. He was standing by his computer chair, fists clenched. From the way he was standing it seemed as though he was staring down at them; his ice blue eyes were frozen.

Garfield's color seemed to fade even further as his face became a neutral mask. His eyes were pained as he tore his gaze from Dick and focused on Raven. "I'll be going now."

He didn't flee the room; his pace was measured and even. He didn't even slam the door behind him but pulled it gently though deliberately until it latched. Raven stared after him with something akin to bemusement in her eyes.

"Did you have to be so heartless?" Dick asked, sounding disappointed. "Who are you to talk anyway? You're 'different' too."

Raven's eyes narrowed. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know more than you think, Raven Roth," Dick countered. "Like how your mother can pay for your existence while being legally dead."

A cold wind seemed to blow through the dorm room.

"At least my mother's being productive while dead," said Raven. "Unlike some."

The cold wind stilled. Dick's eyes were no longer frozen; now they burned a black flame that very few have ever seen.

"My mother fell from the sky." His voice was dark. "At least she didn't fall from grace."

**FLASH!**

_A circus tent… _

_A scream… _

_Blood pooling in sawdust… _

**FLASH! **

It took all of Raven's resolve to bite back the gasp. It wasn't emotion, as she had expected it to be. It was memory, bright and clear, photographic moments in time. It was… agony. She felt it. Not emotionally, but she _felt_ it. It hurt beyond words.

Dick took advantage of her momentary silence.

"Get out."

**FLASH!**

_Darkness…_

_A sudden crash of lightning…_

_A rush of bats… _

Laughter. Sick, maniacal laughter… 

**FLASH!**

Raven's eyes widened as the rush of the vision dissipated and left her reeling. Ordinary human beings get emotional when provoked, as Garfield Logan did. His mind had exploded in a raging whirlwind of thought and emotion, all resounding the same truth: human beings don't like being hurt. Confronting them with pain produces one of two standard reactions, fight or flight. With each scenario, imaginary walls and barriers are erected to protect the individual from the outside aggressor. Raven was used to this—she'd seen it every time she'd so easily looked passed those walls. She'd come to expect it. It was normal human behavior.

_Then what in Azarath…?_

"Now."

Time resumed with the harsh intrusion of Dick's voice. His tone was commanding—just as commanding as his presence, which had somehow grown to fill the entire room. It would suffer no argument.

Raven blinked slowly and sighed, clutching the folder to her chest almost protectively. Apparently she had forgotten that Dick was not an ordinary human being.

Hands that usually floated with a pianist's grace had clenched into painful fists. A voice that often favored disaffected tones had cracked like a whip without the aid of increased volume. Ice blue eyes that normally shown with dry humor had darkened with an emotion Raven could not place, and that's when it hit her. Dick's words and actions lent evidence to the existence of emotion, yet she hadn't actually _seen_ it. What she had seen instead… were memories.

That's when Raven realized that Dick possessed a level of mental shielding ordinary human beings only adopt at need—_that_ was the blackness that she had been seeing all this time. He was like her, and the realization came suddenly as a slap in the face. Dick had a vice grip on his emotions to keep some inner darkness from escaping; and just like her, when provoked that darkness threatened to rip through the cage that holds it.

Raven felt like she should say something but couldn't bring herself to do so. Wherever Dick was with his emotions… she wasn't sure if she wanted to be there. Not to mention where she was in dealing with her own. Her face returned to the neutral mask and she felt her feet resettle on the floor. She inclined her head just slightly in his direction in acknowledgement and then turned to leave.

Dick watched her go and found himself staring—seething—at the closed door and the poster of Haly's Circus as it swung haphazardly into view. He blinked, hard, seeing with waking eyes what usually lives only in haunting nightmares. He spun on his heels and jammed the play button on the entertainment center.

_Hey God, why are you doing this to me? Am I not living up to what I'm supposed to be? Why am I seething with this animosity? Hey God, I think you owe me a great big apology! Terrible lie! Terrible lie! Terrible lie! Terrible lie!_

Feeding off nine years of age-old anger, Dick Grayson launched into a kata. That kata quickly turned into an all-out training session, invisible foes buckling beneath iron fists. Dick spared nothing and no one, his own furniture even became fair ground. As Reznor's voice screamed on, Dick was flipping off the bed and coming within inches of walls and windows.

_My head is filled with disease. My skin is begging you please. I'm on my hands and knees. I want so much to believe!_

And the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door shattered beneath an unfeeling fist. It was the jarring sound of breaking glass that seemed to snap Dick out of his rage. He stared at the spider's web of destruction he had caused to his own property in confusion and wonder.

Then reality set in.

"Way to go, Boy Blunder," he said to no one. Then slowly, deliberately, he unclenched his fists as the aftermath of the emotion washed through him. He panted for a moment, considering his options. Staying in his room like this was _not_ one of them.

He needed air. He needed release. He needed—

Dick closed his eyes and sighed. He needed to go for a run.

He changed into jogging shorts and a hooded sweatshirt, grabbed his keys and shoved those into the front hand-warmer pocket of the sweatshirt, and left his room. He turned the knob to be sure that the door was locked and then he headed for the elevator.

* * *

Garfield Logan sat on the floor in his room angrily flipping channels. There weren't any good cartoons on and nothing else was mindless enough to take his mind off of things. Finally he clicked the power button with a bit more force than necessary and chucked the remote onto his bed. Gar needed to do _something_ to unwind, and he had just the solution. 

He opened his window and stared off at the horizon. North… North to the ocean sounded very appealing. A nice sea breeze, the soft kiss of clouds as he soared through them… Yes, the skies above the ocean…

Well, the Long Island Sound would have to suffice.

Gar took a step back and leapt at his open window. He transformed into a dragonfly before any part of his body had left the building. The green dragonfly ascended alongside the building to the roof. Once on the roof he made for the shadows, dipping down and out of site and reappearing before the world as a peregrine falcon. The falcon spread its wings and lofted high, screeching off into the clouds.

Garfield loved falcons. More specifically, he loved the peregrine. Something about soaring through clouds and around mountains—or buildings, at 55 miles per hour… Then there was that lovely dive bomb at 270 that was great for paying back the bullies.

* * *

Raven sat in a lotus position on the roof of the dormitory. She needed to meditate. Badly. That… conversation… with Dick had done more than just unbalance her. She was so used to his mind being closed to her that when those flashes slammed into her third eye they hit like a fist. Those pictures of memory, crystal clear, devoid of emotion, carried a physical pain shook her to the core. Those moments resonated an agony that transcended emotion. Raven hadn't experienced such pain since her first waking moments on Earth, which brought with them the realization of her banishment from Azarath. 

She hadn't expected it. That was the worst part. Humans and their emotions are as a general rule easily predictable. When you push the right buttons—pick at the right scars and find what hurts, humans will flail and then they'll flee… or fight. This choice, this fifty-fifty shot has always been easy to predict in individuals. Raven _knew_ Garfield Logan would run; that's why she hurt him. She wanted him gone, and then he left. Emotional manipulation has always been an easy way for her to achieve her goals.

What she hadn't counted on was Dick Grayson. His mind was always calm, serenely blank. Oh he was intelligent, sure. His sharp mind was something that she admired. Yet that intellect had covered all emotions, it seemed. His wit was sarcastic and sometimes biting, and there were the vaguest hints of pessimism thinly veiled behind an almost casual apathy that Raven found familiarly comfortable.

She had thought that Dick Grayson might have been a bit like her. She wasn't prepared for how right she was.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Raven had vacated his room, as requested, but she had stood outside his door for a few moments. She had been trying to quickly center herself; his comments revealing that he had looked into her past set off alarm bells. Then he didn't heed the warning in her voice but instead reacted with one of his own. The exponentially increasing stakes had threatened to bring out her anger—she was almost certain they were moments away from something exploding inside his dorm room; but then the anger was deflated quickly—replaced by the sudden intensity of hurt that she gleaned from Dick. She wasn't used to feeling emotions change that quickly. It sent her precarious inner balance tumbling off in all directions and she desperately needed to meditate in order to regain that control.

She was just about to enter her own dorm room when the music started. It's harshness was grating—almost as badly as the lyrics were resonant. For a reason that right now she is still at a loss to explain, Raven extended her third eye and sought out Dick's mind.

The kaleidoscope of images nearly made her double over in pain.

**FLASH!**

_A circus tent… _

_Stunning reds of the big top. Striking golds in the sawdust and hay… _

**FLASH!**

_Crying. _

_Ear piercing screams falling short of the moment._

**FLASH! **

_Red bleeding into gold. _

_Mangled bodies lying at odd angles…_

_Lonely lengths of frayed rope._

**FLASH!**

_Eyes._

_Ice blue, opened, forever frozen in shock and horror…_

**FLASH!**

Raven gasped. _Dick has his mother's eyes_…

The visions swirled and pulled back, fading into each other and then out to a cold and haunting gray that made Raven shiver, and then the calm and solid black that she was familiar with that made her feel nothing at all.

Blackness, followed by the sound of breaking glass.

Raven then disappeared into her room.

Now she sat on the roof of the dorm.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Focusing her energies and restructuring her emotional controls from the ground up.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Regaining her sense of peace and understanding in the world around her.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Dick Grayson was a young man with demons. Oh, they may not be demons in the literal sense but there were demons nonetheless.

Just like her.

_Azarath… _

Dick fights to keep those demons under control, and this is accomplished by keeping his emotions under control.

Just like her.

_Metrion…_

To maintain that level of control—and so effectively that until now she wasn't even sure that it was indeed what he was doing, Dick meditates. He does this through physical activity, as evidenced by the kata she heard him go through to music—and by going for runs as she had just seen him do not a moment ago, but still… meditation.

Just. Like. Her.

_Xinthos…_

Admittedly she had run a web search on 'Dick Grayson' as soon as her internet access was up and running to try and see if anything overt would shed some light on his rather unique ability to shield his surface thoughts. The most useful links went to old newspaper articles detailing how an accident at Haly's Circus left their star trapeze artists dead and a young son orphaned. Follow-ups to the story proclaimed the 'accident' a homicide with an ongoing investigation that was never listed as having been solved. Now more than ever she was certain that Dick was the son-turned-orphan in question. Those… images… that she was subjected to… that had leeched out from the vice that holds his thoughts and emotions within… so clear, too real for memory and yet too vivid for fantasy…

Memory seen so often that it is burned into the brain. Memory seen and _studied_ to fill in all the missing details. Memory relived both willingly and not; pain embraced and yet pain shoved into closets in the mind, locked away from even her levels of perception.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Who studies such memories? What type of person deliberately pokes at such wounds—deliberately feels the pain to see with such stunning clarity? What would such a person hope to gain?

_Azarath… Metrion… __Xinthos__…_

Who _was_ Dick Grayson?

…

…

…

And _what_ just flew off the roof?

* * *

Dick Grayson had been running for longer than he remembered ever running in his entire life. Of course, since he took his watch off a while ago because his wrist was sweating he had no way of knowing whether or not that assessment was accurate or if it was merely his tired and pessimistic mind telling him so. 

When he left the dorms three hours ago he didn't really have a specific destination in mind. Dick ran through the streets near the University until he found himself on Northern Boulevard. On a whim he followed this road west until it crossed the highway. He contemplated turning around then… he really didn't want to push the limits of his endurance too much since he was uncertain of his abilities after his injury. But he didn't feel tired… Or rather, he didn't feel tired enough to want to go back just yet. So he decided to follow the highway north. North seemed like a good a direction as any.

The farther north Dick ran the more invigorated he felt. The sea breeze was wonderfully cooling, and with the runner's high kicking in Dick saw no reason why he should stop.

Perhaps the endorphin rush clouded his judgment.

Before he knew it, he'd reached the Throgs Neck Bridge. At this point Dick figured that really he should turn back… it had to be approaching midnight at the least… But why stop _before_ crossing a bridge? Dick kept going…and damn it was cold up there! He had to practically sprint across the bridge to stay warm enough to negate the wind chill, which was significant even in summer.

By the time he got to Locus Point he was dead on his feet. It took a significant amount of energy to scale down one of the support structures onto dry ground before reaching the toll booths and the prying eyes of the Transit Authority who would be rather displeased with a the concept of a midnight jogger on their bridge.

Dick walked tiredly over to the beach at Locus Point. He removed the sweatshirt and kicked off his sneakers. He peeled the socks off his feet and waded out into the water, splashing himself all the while to cool down and attempting to ignore the fact that it was Eastchester Bay. Once he was sufficiently cooled he walked back to dry sand and plopped down heavily. It was a good night to just stare at the moonlight reflecting off the waves…

That good night rapidly progressed into a good morning. All too soon Dick caught the slight lightening of the eastern horizon and a pre-dawn fog began rolling in off the water. If Locus Point sunrises were anything like Gotham then it was just after four thirty. Dick hung his head and sighed; he would need to head back soon. Writing class starts at ten thirty.

Dick pulled on his socks and shoes and zipped his sweatshirt more fully. He checked his watch—four forty-five. With any luck he'd be back by nine, giving him plenty of time to shower and grab breakfast before class. If he could only stay awake long enough to get through French he could then sleep for the rest of the day.

Dick scaled the bridge without any trouble and had begun his jog before the bridge became packed with commuters.

Unfortunately, he didn't get much farther than the bridge before the cramps set in. It started out as a stitch in his side. Then his hamstrings made themselves known in a less-than-polite fashion. However, when he slowed down to accommodate these hindrances the chest pains set in: a burning that began in his left shoulder that seemed to creep out from the bullet scar. Then breathing hurt; slowly at first, forcing Dick to take shallower and shallower breaths to avoid the pain.

Dick had just run down the exit ramp from the Cross Island Parkway onto Northern Boulevard when the dizziness started coming in overwhelming waves. He had to stop for a time to catch his breath, which was a much more painful affair than it should have been. The morning commute was in full swing now and so Dick veered off the road and into Alley Pond Park. He knew that he needed to get back to campus, but at the same time he was aware that pushing himself was not the way to go about it. So he began walking, following Northern Boulevard as it traversed the park.

Slowly Dick made his way out of the park and into suburbia. He didn't feel any worse for having walked. On the contrary, he was starting to feel a bit better. Dick thought that he could finish off his run if he took it nice and slow, and for a while it seemed to be working.

A very brief while.

The dizziness returned with a vengeance. Suddenly the road was teetering dangerously back and forth. Dick slowed to a halt and bent over, bracing himself with his hands on his knees. The pavement beneath his feet began to sway and stretch and was soon running laps around him.

Dick didn't realize when his body joined in with the ground's rhythm until pavement came up to smack him in the nose. Fortunately he braced a hand out at the last second and saved the concussion. From this awkward position he quickly flopped down the rest of the way to curl into the fetal position. His chest was burning and the headache that had suddenly slammed him was threatening to eject his eyes from their sockets. He knew the headache was from the dehydration, too, and he could just _hear_ Alfred's admonishment of his gross stupidity.

Alfred's rather soothing accent was suddenly overpowered by the blare of a car horn. Dick blinked and the world suddenly snapped back into place—as did the pain. The horn sounded again and Dick turned his head to see an oversized SUV pull off the road near him. That's when Dick noticed (in the act of head-turning) that he was on his back, which meant that he had rolled over at some point, which therefore meant that he had blacked out.

"Brilliant, Dick," he groaned, as he forced himself into a sitting position. "Fucking brilliant."

"Are you alright there?" The SUV had magically coughed up a person. An older man with thinning salt and pepper hair—

Dick groaned again and rolled his eyes shut.

"Do you need help?"

Dick opened his eyes to see the man standing several feet away. "Just taking a breather, Dr. Cabrini," he said, trying to sound casual to the man he recognized as the head of Hudson University's psychology department.

The doctor was taken aback for having been addressed by name. He then deduced that the young man sitting on the sidewalk must be a student at the university. This was verified when Dick shakily stood up.

"I know you?" he said. "From the university?"

Dick nodded weakly as he made sure his feet were securely beneath him. "Yeah," he said, his voice a bit stronger. "Richard Grayson. I'm part of the summer program."

Dr. Cabrini nodded. He remembered seeing Dick around campus; not many forget those eyes.

"Ah yes," he said. "You'll be taking a class with me this fall."

Dick nodded. "Monday mornings, eight to eleven."

The doctor smirked. "I hope you're not a commuter."

Dick had the good graces to blush slightly. "No, I live on campus. I was just out for a jog this morning."

The smirk left the doctor's face. "We're over five miles from campus…"

"Wow, that close?"

Dr. Cabrini got the distinct impression that this revelation came as pleasant surprise. "Yes," he answered. "Why? Where did you think you were?"

Dick opened his mouth to answer but suddenly wobbled on his feet. Dr. Cabrini reached a hand out to steady him.

"Richard?"

Dick regained his equilibrium and nodded again to say that he was fine. "I might have overdone it a bit this morning."

The doctor eyed him critically for a moment. Then: "Let me give you a ride back to campus."

"You don't have to," Dick insisted.

"Richard, you can barely stand. I don't think you can walk much either, let alone run. I _could_ call an ambulance to report a jogger in distress, or you can get in the car."

Dick sighed and admitted defeat. He allowed himself to be led over to the silver Escalade. The heated leather seat and refreshing blast of air conditioning felt wonderful. The headache, joint pains, and breathing difficulties marred the experience though. That and the physical exertion in lieu of sleep was beginning to catch up to him, yet another sign that he still wasn't back to the condition he felt he should be in by now. It reminded him of his early training days, and that wasn't a good thing.

Dr. Cabrini pulled his SUV up in front of the dormitory that houses the summer session students. The clock in the dashboard read 8:15.

"Thanks for the ride," Dick said as he unbuckled his seatbelt.

"You're welcome, Richard," the doctor replied. "Now if I were you I'd drink some water and head over to the University clinic."

"I'm alright, Dr. Cabrini," Dick deflected. "Really."

"Then why are you wheezing?"

"I've been sick," Dick answered. "I guess I'm not as better as I thought." Dick opened the passenger door. "But I don't need to go to the clinic. I will drink some water though." He climbed out of the car. "Thanks again," and before the doctor could say anything the door swung shut and Dick was jogging up the front stairs of the dorm.

A shower, change of clothes, a full gallon of water to drink followed by a large coffee from the café and it was time for class. Of course, he couldn't tell if the trembling was from exhaustion or the sudden caffeine intake, and the horrific pains as his kidneys decided to switch back on and say 'hello' after the water began to cycle through were about an even trade for the lessening of the headache.

Yet despite it all, Dick was still five minutes early for class.

* * *

Raven sat in her usual seat in the back of the classroom. The din of thoughts this morning was rather subdued; most people were lamenting the end of the weekend or dreading the paper that's due tomorrow. If the levels stayed like this then maybe she could make it through class without the luxury of Dick Grayson's dark and quiet mind to focus on. He was usually here by now… 

Maybe it was masochism, or maybe just morbid curiosity, but Raven chose to focus in on the mind of Garfield Logan. The swirling cacophony melted away into a single personality. A single voice rose above the rest, and it was asking questions.

_Where _is_ he, anyway? He wasn't in his room this morning…_

Raven's interest piqued. **_Who?_** That's when she remembered that Dick Grayson hadn't arrived yet. She focused on Garfield again.

_What was that last night? Was he standing up for me? Against **her**? They're friends. _

Raven blinked. **_Friends_?**

_I'm not his friend. Why'd he do that? He's Dick Grayson. I'm nobody. Why?_

Just then the balance shifted; the background noise rose in crescendo and then fell again.

Dick just walked in the door. Raven quickly blocked out Garfield's mind; the thoughts were becoming too frantic to tolerate.

Dick grabbed an empty seat, near the door as always. He pulled his notebook from his backpack and dropped it onto his desk, then rested his head on his arms on the notebook.

Raven instantly noticed that Dick wasn't acting like himself. For starters, he's usually more awake for class than most. Then there were the bags under his eyes, pale complexion, and slight limp that made it look as though he was hit by a truck. She focused her third eye in on his mind and silently gasped. He _felt_ like he'd been hit by a truck! Raven seriously regretted her ability to sense the physical pain of others in that instant. That truck drove through Dick's chest and parked on his kidneys, and the trailer door hit him in the head on the way down.

_What in Azarath **happened** to him last night? _

That's when she remembered that she saw him leave to go jogging last night. She stayed on the roof meditating until after midnight. She hadn't seen him return.

* * *

Somehow Dick managed to stay awake through his morning writing class without too much difficulty. Of course, the relentless pain in his sides and lower back, courtesy of his irate kidneys, might have aided that. Thankfully the professor used the entire class period to answer questions concerning the upcoming paper, and therefore it didn't look bad that Dick kept his head on his closed notebook the whole time. At least his eyes stayed open and fixed on the professor, no matter _where_ his mind went. 

When class ended Dick stood up and silently promised his kidneys that he would _never_ be that stupid again so that _maybe_ they would forgive him sometime in the near future. In tandem to this promise, Dick added on the peace offering of a trip to the café.

Subconsciously he was aware of a small green shadow following him from class all the way across campus to the café. This 'shadow' stayed back and mostly out of sight and then followed him into the café, got in line two people behind and kept his capped head down. On his way into the café proper Dick called out:

"I'm headed for the table in the corner, Gar."

Garfield Logan chuckled nervously and trotted up beside Dick. "Are you okay man? You look like hell."

"I will be," Dick grunted as he dropped his bag off at the chosen table, and Garfield followed suit. Dick sensed that Gar was nervous about something as they gathered their chosen breakfast foods in an irritatingly tense silence. However, Dick was in no mood for guessing games. He watched Garfield push a slice of pancake around in his imitation maple syrup for all of twenty seconds before losing his patience.

"Are you going to make pancake sculptures all morning or are you going to tell me what's on your mind?"

If it were possible, green Garfield Logan blushed. He slid a bit lower in his chair and forced a smile. "Uh... I tried to talk to you earlier—this morning I mean. You weren't around."

"Ran late this morning," Dick responded with a touch of annoyance in his voice. Gar cowered a bit more and Dick softened his expression. "Why?"

"I, uh… Well, you see, I wanted to ask you…"

Dick did his best to not allow his impatience to rattle the poor boy further. "Yes?" He didn't do a very good job.

Gar swallowed nervously. "Well, a—about last night…"

Dick's face remained impassive but his eyes flashed briefly with that darkness Garfield had seen right before he took his leave of Dick's room.

"What about it?" Dick asked, his voice betraying no emotion and therefore reassuring Gar that whatever he saw briefly in Dick's ice blue eyes was probably just his paranoid and over-active imagination playing tricks on him. But then again…

"I'm sorry," he said quietly to his pancakes.

"For what?" Dick sounded genuinely surprised.

Garfield looked up then with wide, uncertain eyes. "F—for making you fight with Raven."

Dick's eyes flashed again, and his jaw clenched. It seemed as though the temperature of the café dropped suddenly. "You didn't make me fight with Raven," he reassured, his voice hard and authoritative. "Raven made me fight with Raven."

"But, you two are friends," Gar protested. "You only fought cuz of me." He looked down and away again and slumped in his chair.

"No," Dick insisted, "we fought because she chose to be a heartless bitch. You had nothing to do with that and I'm sorry you got in the way."

Garfield grinned broadly—for a fraction of a second. His demeanor quickly changed back to insecure whipped puppy. "Oh, the chlorophyll comment," he said, once again to his pancakes. "S'okay. I got that sort of thing all the time in high school. I'm used to it." Had he been looking up he would have seen Dick smirk.

"That remark is why I called her 'heartless' after you left,"

Garfield looked up at that and saw Dick's smirk run cold.

"She's a bitch because of what she said in return."

"Really? What'd she say?" The eager curiosity fell from Gar's face just as quickly as it came. He looked away again. "Sorry. None of my business."

"You don't want to know, anyway," said Dick with finality and Gar knew not to ask again, so he just nodded.

"Thank you," he said at length, breaking the thick silence that had descended.

"For what?"

"For sticking up for me. And for, you know… not asking?"

Dick blinked. "Asking…?"

Gar went back to pushing pancake mush around his plate again. "You never asked me why," he said quietly. "Even people who try to be nice to me, they always ask me why I'm… I'm—but you never did! You never… drew attention to—my condition." Then, almost inaudibly: "No one's ever been nice to me before without asking."

Thankfully Dick wasn't so out of it that he thought Gar was speaking to his plate of syrup-soaked pancakes. "I didn't have to," Dick confessed, smirking when Garfield looked up. "You're in the IMDb."

Garfield blinked in surprise and then blushed as much as a green human is capable. "The Internet Movie Database! _Awwww _man! I'd hoped they'd _forgotten_ about me!"

Dick laughed—lightly to ensure that Gar wouldn't think it was directed at him. "Apparently not," he said. Then, in an attempt at delicacy: "there aren't many… people like you… in the world." Well, it's the thought that counts. "I watched _Space Trek_ growing up and when I saw you in class I googled your name."

Garfield sighed melodramatically. "I hoped that the students here would have been too young to have stayed up late to watch it," he confessed. "And that the professors wouldn't have bothered with it on principle."

Dick chuckled. "Well as much as I'd love to stay and chat," he stood up—with a grimace of pain that was quickly masked, "I have to get ready for French."

Garfield groaned. "Dude, I am _sooooooo_ not ready for this quiz thing."

This in turn caused Dick to groan; he'd forgotten about the quiz. "Hopefully it won't be too bad," he said as he grabbed his things.

"Well normally I wouldn't worry—I speak a little French, throwback to my early childhood," he explained at Dick's questioning glance. "'Cept I didn't study last night."

Dick arched an eyebrow.

"Well I meant to," Gar defended. "I just… got caught up doing something else."

"Video games?"

"No, I—" Garfield caught himself, realizing he had no idea what to tell Dick—if anything, of his nocturnal activities. After all, he couldn't just say 'I flew a few laps of Long Island as a peregrine falcon'.

"I went for a walk."

Dick nodded, mentally making note of the substitution but deciding not to press.

They walked over to the dormitory in comfortable silence. However, Dick's longer legs made his natural gate a bit wider than Garfield's and so he seemed to maintain a good half-step's distance ahead of his slight green companion. Normally Garfield would just walk faster to compensate for this, but he was preoccupied with studying the slight limp in Dick's stride.

"So what'd _you_ do last night?" he asked Dick when they had made it to the privacy if the elevator.

Dick gave him a sideways glance.

"You're limping a bit," Gar pointed out. "And you look like shit."

"Went for a run," Dick said dismissively.

"Where? Back to Gotham?"

Dick glared and Garfield seemed to shrink. He studied his shoelaces.

"You've been to Gotham; would you want to run there at night?"

Gar couldn't help but laugh. "Dude, I wouldn't want to run there _during the day!_" The humor suddenly slipped into seriousness. "Gothamites have a bit of a bias against people like me."

"Yeah," Dick casually agreed. "The paparazzi are murder on celebrities."

Garfield's sudden look of bewilderment soon melted into a grin. Then the elevator doors opened and Dick went off in search of his room. Garfield followed without realizing where Dick was headed and then slunk back, embarrassed, when Dick stopped at the door.

"Sorry," Gar said quietly.

"I'll just be a minute," Dick said dismissively. He unlocked the door and slipped inside—making sure to shut Garfield out. He reemerged momentarily, however, having grabbed another notebook and taken a few extra strength painkillers. "Ready for a test?" he asked, pulling the door shut and checking the knob to be sure it was locked.

"Is anyone ever ready for a test?" Garfield groaned in reply as they began walking towards the elevator.

"No, but does anyone have a choice, either?"

"Well you could always fake sick. With how you look I'm sure Monsieur La Brun would believe you."

Dick snorted. "Funny. I would just have to make it up anyway."

"Well, yeah. But by then you might be ready."

"I thought you said that no one was ever ready for a test?"

When Garfield didn't reply, Dick followed his gaze and saw Raven standing patiently waiting for the elevator.

"Uh, you go ahead," Gar said quietly. "I'll… take the stairs." He then turned without further word and headed for the stairwell. Dick's kidneys gave a preemptive signal of their displeasure and he bit back a grimace.

"Wait up," he called out, purposely loud enough for Raven to hear. "It's a good day for the stairs."

* * *

Raven had heard them coming long before they entered earshot. That is to say, she heard Garfield's almost frantic mind coming from a mile away. His disjointed thoughts were hard to sort through at first, but soon she picked out his friendly banter with Dick concerning their upcoming French test. Satisfied that they weren't discussing her and the… incidents… of last night, she shifted her focus and tuned the both of them out. 

Of course, not being tuned in didn't stop her from sensing loud and clear when Garfield noticed her presence. A caged tiger snarled at the same time a kitten cowered in a corner. She'd expected this reaction, the mixture of anger and hurt. After all, she made him angry by hurting him. It made sense that he would want to avoid her. It's what she wanted, wasn't it?

_"Wait up. It's a good day for the stairs_._"_

That was deliberate, Raven knew. It was said with the intentions of her overhearing it. A slight breeze blew through the hallway. So Dick was still angry. Well, in truth she'd expected that, too. She _didn't_ expect him to voluntarily take the stairs to avoid her though, especially when his entire body was screaming at him not to be so foolish.

That in and of itself was a deliberate move, done for her benefit. Dick purposely chose Garfield over her. Was it meant to hurt her? To make her angry or rub salt in fresh wounds? Or was it just a simple, pointed statement about his current feelings? Raven hadn't a clue, as Dick's mind was hidden from her.

Her musings ended as the elevator light dinged to life and the doors opened.

* * *

"Dude, you gonna make it?" 

Garfield and Dick had made their way from the eighth floor to the third. For the first two floors Dick was fine, then somewhere between five and six he began using the handrail, and on the landing of the third floor he had to lean up against the side of the wall to catch his breath.

Dick waved Gar off even as he panted. "Maybe it isn't such a good day for the stairs…"

"Yeah I'll say," Garfield readily agreed. His green eyes blinked in concern.

Dick pushed off the wall and stood under his own power again. Then he took a look over the side of the stairwell at the center railing and how it bent itself around corners…

"Screw this," he muttered as he slipped off his sneakers. "Take these and meet me at the bottom."

"W-what?"

Dick grabbed the railing and vaulted into a crouch position. "Stairs suck." He waved casually and pushed himself off the flat part of the railing at the landing and onto the slope, balancing effortlessly on the two-inch wide hard plastic.

"DUUUUUUDE!"

Garfield ran down the stairs two at a time to try and catch up to Dick, who was using his arms and shifting his weight to steer around corners. He had made it to the landing halfway between the first and second floors just in time to see Dick jump at the last second as he ran out of rail. His momentum carried him nearly six feet into the hallway before he landed on steady feet in a slightly sideways crouch.

"Dude! How'd you _do_ that?" Garfield ran down the last of the stairs and over to Dick's side as he stood.

"Practice," Dick groaned as his body reprimanded him.

"That was just totally awesome, man!" Gar exclaimed. "You shouldn't worry about the French test. If college doesn't work out you could always run away with the circus."

"We're going to be late," Dick said as he reached over and grabbed his sneakers from where Gar had dropped them. He had them laced quickly and when he stood only a practiced eye would have been able to spot the hesitation and the grimace of pain. "Let's go."

* * *

Raven was waiting for them beside the elevator. She had seen Dick's acrobatic display and, unlike Garfield, knew _exactly_ where he learned to do that. She was ready make her presence known when she felt the kick to the stomach that was Dick's reaction to Garfield's circus comment and decided that letting him know she'd seen and heard everything might not have been the smartest choice. Thus she chose to make it look like she had been waiting by the main door instead. 

Both Dick and Gar stopped short when they saw her standing there.

"I'm in all of your classes. Trying to avoid me is rather pointless."

**FLASH!**

A cat hissing and growling… 

**FLASH!**

"Are you really that bored?" Gar asked, causing Raven to blink and return to the here and now. "Have nothing better to do than pick _another_ fight?"

"I wanted to make sure you made it down the stairs without breaking your neck," Raven droned to Dick, unperturbed.

"Well now you know," Garfield dismissed. "So go away."

Raven's eyes narrowed just slightly. "Wasn't talking to you," she dismissed, her gaze focused on Dick. Then, with her voice uncharacteristically soft: "Are you sure you're alright? I saw you go running last night but I didn't see you come back."

"What? Are you _stalking_ him now?"

"Are _you_ his designated voice?" Raven shot back.

The two glared each other down. Raven's eyes were hard and challenging, and she saw in Garfield's the ghost of something primal. His thoughts gave her a headache.

"Say something Dick," Garfield called out in defiance of Raven's comment.

There was no reply.

Slowly and as one the two of them turned to where Dick was standing.

He wasn't there.

Garfield looked at his watch. "_Awwww_ man!" he whined. "We're late!"

The two exchanged angry glares before dashing down the hall and out the door towards class.

* * *

The pain meds were starting to kick in, and Dick wanted nothing more in the world than to curl up in a ball and sleep for a week. Unfortunately he didn't have that option. He had a test to take, and his quasi-friends' bickering was starting to give him a headache. So taking a cue from his mentor, Dick vanished without either of them noticing. He was already seated in his desk in French class, pen held at the ready, when Raven and Garfield stumbled in, breathless and late for class. 

The test passed in a blur for Dick. He wasn't quite sure if he read the questions correctly, and then he wasn't quite sure if he answered them correctly. Well, he felt confident about the true/false and multiple-choice sections. It was the fill-in-the-blanks that worried him, though as he left the classroom he was suddenly unsure as to why he was unsure in the first place.

A nap sounded good. A very. long. nap.

Dick finally arrived back in his room. He didn't have any other responsibilities for the rest of the day. As he made sure his lock was secure, his eyes settled on the poster of Haly's Circus that hung on the back of his door. It was an older publicity poster, cheaply framed for dorm purposes (unlike the larger, more ornate one that hung in his room back at the manor). His parents' faces stared out at him in faded colors from the top left corner. After all, the Flying Graysons were headliners, the stars of the show…

Dick sighed tiredly as his gaze lingered there. He missed them terribly; the ache their death left him with hadn't dulled or faded with time. Rather, he'd simply gotten used to its constant presence. Except for these past few days of course, when the very thought of being 'used to it' was enough to make his stomach turn. He never wanted to be used to that feeling, Dick decided. Getting used to it was just another step closer to the type of acceptance he was striving to avoid. Worse than 'getting used to it,' 'finding acceptance' might actually make him think of hanging up the Robin suit.

"Not on your life," he promised aloud. He wasn't sure if he was speaking to Batman, The Joker, Harvey Dent, Boss Zucco, or even Richard John Grayson, but he promised nonetheless.

Dick didn't even bother to take his shoes off. He shut off the lights and fell on top of his bed, content to merely pass into temporary oblivion.

* * *

Raven stood outside Dick's door. She hasn't seen him since he left French, and she needed to talk to him. She had expected to see him at dinner, but he didn't show. She endured nearly two hours of the closest approximation to Hell on Earth (or to her, Hell within Hell) in order to wait for him and he didn't come down. 

Raven was still new to the spectacle of human interaction. She didn't quite know how to behave around people. Oh, she knew what they felt and what they thought and this made it easier to predict them, but that didn't make them easier to _endure_. People like Garfield Logan were harmless irritations that she was now slowly developing a callous towards. Their frantic and disjointed—and quite frankly _volatile_ thoughts that bred their emotions were very far removed from her norms of militantly pursued restraint and emotional detachment. So unused to normal human interaction, Raven had been overwhelmed when she first arrived at Hudson University. Now, as time wore on, she found herself less and less suffocated by the encroaching thoughts and emotions of others. Simply tuning out the constant cacophony has grown easier with each passing scenario of forced interaction.

Raven was discovering that she could be around people and still remain isolated from their thoughts and emotions—something that she feared she would never be able to manage. And tuning out the din was making some scenarios of forced interaction almost bearable, almost… pleasant, and while eating in the café certainly wasn't one of them, class time was shaping up to be just the type of scenario she could enjoy.

This was a comforting realization.

The startling realization was that she found herself sometimes actually _wanting_ the company of ordinary human beings. Well, not 'ordinary' human beings, precisely. More like, Raven found herself wanting the company of one 'extra ordinary' human being; the company of the only human being she has found capable of blocking her completely out of his mind.

Well, until she royally pissed him off the other day.

Raven found herself wanting to be in the company of Dick Grayson. There were no expectations, no pretenses, no intruding thoughts. Being in his presence was easy, almost… comfortable. It almost reminded her of Azarath and the powerful minds there, where one could be surrounded and yet all alone with their own mind and yet be completely fine and at peace with this concept.

As Raven got used to a world without friends or family and only the random, frantic and disjointed _volatile_ thoughts of strangers to keep her company _when she chose! _ … Being in the sole company of Dick Grayson felt a bit like home.

And Raven knew that she needed to apologize to him and soon if she was ever going to have that feeling again.

With these thoughts in mind Raven knocked on Dick's door. A few moments later and a bleary-eyed Dick Grayson opened his door.

"What?" he demanded bluntly. It was obvious to Raven that he'd been sleeping. His mind was as blank as ever.

"We need to talk."

"Can it wait?"

"No."

Dick sighed groggily and stepped back from the door in wordless invitation. Raven only hesitated a moment before crossing the threshold. When she made sure to shut the door behind her she noticed the poster of Haly's Circus hanging on the door. She inwardly cringed, remembering their earlier argument.

"What's up?" Dick asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he sat on the edge of his futon.

Raven steeled her resolve; it was now or never. "Uh… About earlier… Last night."

"What about last night?" His tone was flat. Raven couldn't tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

"I said some things. You said some things… We both… said things."

On any other evening, Dick might have found her newfound inability to speak her mind amusing.

"Yeah… and?"

"And… Uh… I'm—" Raven's apology was cut off by the sudden explosion of Dick's light fixture. It was momentarily enveloped in obsidian energy only to shatter completely. Fine shards of glass rained down on the room as Dick barely had the chance to shield his eyes before the futon, the floor, and just about everything else were covered in glass. When the glass shower ceased, Dick's first instincts were to check the windows and doors. He didn't see any bullet holes or anything of that nature, so that greatly narrowed the possibilities.

"First the heater, now the light fixture!" he grumbled as he dusted glass off of his jeans. He noticed Raven's slight blush even though she didn't think he did.

Raven closed her eyes and took a few deep, calming breaths. Then, in a meek, barely audible voice she managed: "I'm sorry."

Dick blinked tiredly. His long-overdue rest was disturbed, and now he needed to change his sheets because of all the glass.

"Why do you care?"

"I don't like hurting people."

"It didn't seem that way."

That flat, almost bland voice. Raven hung her head. "I don't like... I never meant…" Her voice was softer than before, and she seemed to shrink further into herself.

Dick found himself hoping that she would finish that statement. Finally she did.

"To hurt you."

Dick's expression remained carefully neutral. "What _did_ you mean then?"

That emotionless voice again… Raven was almost wishing that he would scream at her or say something that would give her a clue as to his thoughts or emotions.

"You said I was different," she said, sounding more like her normal self again. "What do you know about me?" Just a question, nothing behind it save curiosity.

"I ran a web search on your name."

"Why?"

"Probably for the same reasons you looked up mine."

Raven's stoic nature didn't betray any of her thoughts in that moment. She had looked up Dick Grayson because she sensed he was unique. What exactly _does_ he know?

Regardless, she knew that pressing him wasn't going to gain her anything.

"Garfield… irritates me. I didn't feel like dealing with him, so I took a cheap shot to get him to go away. I didn't think you'd… I didn't think there would be an issue."

Dick seemed to let the weight of this revelation sink in for a moment. "So what about me exactly made you think that I wouldn't care when you insult my friends in my presence?"

"Look… I came here to apologize. I've done that. You can take it or leave it as you will." Satisfied with herself, and knowing not to push her luck by staying and dragging this out, Raven turned to go.

Dick called after her. "I was never the one you needed to apologize to."

Raven paused only momentarily. Then she opened the door—

—And came face to face with Garfield Logan, who had a fist raised and ready to knock. They both stood there staring at each other, lost for words.

Dick resisted the urge to laugh at the both of them. "Come on in Gar," he called out, definite amusement in his tired voice. "Raven and I weren't doing anything important."

Garfield blushed and looked down at the floor. Raven glowered and shut her eyes momentarily.

"Raven, why don't you get out of the way and let him in?"

Her face was a neutral mask despite her inner conflict when she stepped aside.

"Uh… Hi Dick," Gar stammered as he entered the room. "I saw that you didn't come down to dinner, so, uh, I was wondering if you wanted to do that pizza thing now?"

Dick sighed tiredly. "I'd love to, but right now I can barely keep my eyes open. Why don't you take Raven? I know there's a few things she'd like to say to you." Then before either Raven or Garfield knew what was happening, they'd both been ushered outside the room with the door shut and locked in their faces.

Raven and Garfield stood outside Dick's door, staring blankly at each other.

"So you have something to say to me, eh? Care to do it over pizza, or is it not something you can say to me in polite company?"

Raven fumed, mentally counting to ten. "Look, you irritate me. I really have no desire to associate with you outside of class."

"It's only pizza, for Pete's sake!" Garfield interrupted. "It's not like I asked you on a date or anything." Pause. "Not like I would."

Raven held up a hand for silence. "But… just because I think you're beneath me in every sense of the word—"

"Every?" Garfield interrupted again, deliberately teasing.

Raven grit her teeth and mentally forced herself to calm down. "I'm trying to apologize to you. Don't make it harder than it already is."

Garfield blinked. "A-apologize?"

Had Raven not been concentrating so intently she would have enjoyed blindsiding him. "My general opinions of you don't give me the right to insult you for no reason. I'm sorry."

"Uh… I… Ah, well… Uh…" Garfield honestly had no idea what to say or do to that.

"I've said what I needed," Raven droned. "Goodbye." She turned away from him with intents of going back to her room.

"Wait!" Garfield called after her.

Raven paused.

"Did Dick make you apologize to me?"

Raven stood with her back to him for a moment, then walked over to her room and let herself in. Garfield was left alone in the hallway, his question unanswered.

Of course, Raven wasn't the only one he could ask.

He heard a vacuum roar to life inside Dick's room—he wasn't sleeping yet. Gar knocked, loudly, on the door. The vacuum ceased and a highly annoyed Dick Grayson stuck his head out the door.

"What? No pizza?"

Garfield pushed the door open the rest of the way and marched inside. Dick tracked his movements with a bemused look.

"Dude, did you force her to apologize to me?" Garfield looked indignant, which, to an overtired crime fighter used to dealing with irate metahumans, looked uncannily amusing on the petit green teenager.

"Do you really think anyone can _force_ Raven to do anything she doesn't want to do?" Dick asked.

Gar had nothing to say to that.

"Look, I don't need you sticking up for me. I mean, it's cool that you went medieval on her ass yesterday, but don't have her apologize to me just cuz you feel sorry for me. I don't want your pity."

Dick, tired as he was, managed a laugh. "What part of my previous statement didn't you understand?" he asked. "Or was it the whole thing? I didn't force Raven to do anything. She came to apologize to me and mentioned that she wanted to apologize to you, too, but hadn't worked up the nerve yet."

Garfield blinked a few times, jaw hanging open. "I… she… really?"

Dick used his impatience to prevent him from smirking. "Yes. Now I have to finish vacuuming before I can _finally_ get some sleep!"

Garfield just stood there, staring.

Dick was losing patience. "Hint, hint."

"Ah, dude, what the heck happened in here?" Gar ran a boot over the rug in front of him and glass dust jumped about.

"My light fixture exploded," Dick grumbled, reaching for the vacuum.

"Uh, did it, like, hit your mirror on the way down?"

Dick angrily switched on the vacuum. He was desperately trying not to physically pick Gar up and chuck him from the room.

"Ah, right…" Gar stammered after a moment. "You probably want to get this done so that you can, you know, go back to sleep."

"How astute of you," Dick said as passively as he could manage over the hum and crackle of the vacuum sucking up glass.

"Right. So, I'll just, I dunno, leave you to it, I guess. G'night Dick!"

"Night."

Gar left the room, not sure of what to think or feel based on his evening thus far. A nice, long flight seemed in order.

* * *

Garfield spent the rest of night soaring through the clouds. He really only felt truly free when he was flying. It helped him to put life's crap far, far below him. When he landed back on the roof of the dormitory a little after midnight he felt much better: refreshed and in a better mental state than he was before he left. 

And hungry.

He had just made it back to his floor when he saw Dick's door open. Dick looked worlds better for the additional sleep. Gar wondered if he was feeling social.

"Yo! Grayson!"

Dick saw Gar practically skipping down the hallway towards him. "Hey Gar," he greeted in return. "What's up?"

"Not much," Gar replied as he slowed to a stop next to Dick. "Just got back from a walk."

"Do you always go for walks this late by yourself?"

"I dunno. Do you always go for all night runs by yourself?"

"Not usually," Dick replied casually. "Only when I'm in the mood for pizza. Hungry?"

"Dude! I'm _always_ hungry!"

Dick snorted a laugh. "I should introduce you to my friend Wally…"

"Um, do you think we should invite Raven along?"

As if on cue, a light turned on in Raven's room and shone through the crack in the door.

"Well, she's awake," Dick observed.

Just then the door opened. "I heard you mention pizza," a very calm and collected Raven said to Dick.

"I did," he verified. "Gar and I were on our way out."

"You wanna come with?" Garfield asked cheerfully.

Raven sighed. She really _was_ hungry. Four hours of meditation will do that to a person. And if she wanted to pursue Dick's friendship…

"I'll just grab my coat…"

* * *

Song credits: Nine Inch Nails-_Terrible Lie_; Pretty Hate Machine 


	5. Professor X

The summer session flew by and before anyone knew it, the fall semester was upon them. Dick, Raven, and Garfield found themselves in mostly different classes now, depending on their chosen majors: criminology, eastern studies, and zoology, respectively. They would be seeing less of each other, which by the end of the summer they had decided was probably a good thing. Friends can only spend so much time together before nerves get frayed and feelings stepped on.

There was one exception: psych class. Introductory psychology was required for each of their majors, and so the three of them dragged themselves to class Monday morning at eight. Garfield was mostly asleep and put his head down on his desk the moment he sat down. Raven was more awake, but her naturally stoic nature made one wonder at times just exactly how closely she was paying attention to the world around her. Dick appeared to be the most awake for this class, but then, he had been looking forward to it ever since learning who would be teaching it.

Well, there was the slight matter of their first meeting wherein Dick was passed out on the side of the road, but this was his chance to make a more favorable impression.

He glanced at his watch, eager for class to begin. Dr. Cabrini was five minutes late. Anyone should be given the benefit of the doubt for the first time they had to be somewhere at eight a.m., so Dick wasn't all that concerned.

That's when he noticed the lectern.

Well not so much the lectern per se, but the small red pinpoint light shining on the inside of the lamp attached to it. Only years' worth of training prevented him from bursting out laughing. Dr. Cabrini was videotaping the class!

Dick had read most of the good doctor's work when he was about twelve; Bruce had handed him a pile of books as well as several loose-leaf binders as part of his apprenticeship homework. The world-renown psychologist was most notably credited for his work in psychological profiling, having given various police department and government agencies the working profiles on everyone from Ted Bundy to the Joker. It was seeing his name in the college's online catalogue as head of the psychology department that was the deciding factor for his decision to attend Hudson University.

Dick concealed his smirk rather well as he pulled out his notebook. If he guessed correctly—and he was fairly certain that he had, this held the beginnings of a profiling exercise. Dick, eager to improve the professor's opinion of him, decided to get a jump on the probable class work/homework and began jotting down a few notes…

About twenty minutes later, when Dick had just about finished his note taking, the professor finally arrived. His pace was brisk and he didn't stop to greet the class as he strode purposefully towards his desk. He deposited his briefcase beside the lectern and took a long swig from his extra-large coffee thermos before crossing to the blackboard.

"Good morning," the professor greeted without looking at the class. He then wrote his name hastily in chalk, scratching and screeching as he went. "I am Doctor Xavier Cabrini." At this point he turned around. "And since I'm not yet bald," he focused directly on Garfield, who had a comic book concealed beneath his notebook, "you _will NOT_ call me Professor X."

Half the class burst out laughing as Garfield covered his surprise with a seemingly dejected snap of the fingers. Even Raven was smirking. Dick just shook his head.

Dr. Cabrini then walked over to the far wall and flipped two switches. A white screen lowered itself into position at the front of the class, obscuring the blackboard, while the professor went back to his briefcase. He pulled out a stack of papers, divided the stack into five piles, and dropped a pile on the first desk of every column.

"This is your syllabus. You'll note my email address and office phone number listed with my office hours. I'm a busy man—appointments are better. I always check my voicemail every morning, and my email several times a day. There's no excuse for your not being able to contact me, and I would appreciate being informed when you have been too stupid to drink enough water, either after alcohol consumption, or—" a pointed glance at Dick, "—through over exertion, to crawl out of bed in time for class."

Dick pursed his lips but said nothing. After all, he's received worse taunts, and that one he probably deserved.

"You'll also note that I have listed everything you will need to have read, completed, or generally thought about in order to be prepared for each class. I do not except late work without an excuse note from the county coroner, and since you are all high school graduates I will assume that you are all able to read. It would behoove you to practice that skill with this textbook. It's a fairly interesting read. I should know; I wrote it. Of course, if you should have any problems with the material, having the author on hand to answer any questions you may have is a rather uniquely beneficial situation, wouldn't you say?"

Dick just smiled slightly and shook his head as he perused the syllabus. He'd already noted that their introduction to the world of psychology was 'understanding personality,' which fit with his hypothesis of a profiling exercise.

"Now I'm going to take attendance. When I call your name, please _verbally_ express yourselves so that I can check you off." With lightning speed and uncannily accurate pronunciation the professor read the roll. Several people he didn't wait to hear from, including Dick, because he had recognized them. This didn't surprise Dick at all. He was already well aware that his first impression was a lasting one, from the earlier comment alone.

"Very good," said Dr. Cabrini as he shoved the attendance roster back into his brief case. "Now that the essential housekeeping has been tackled, it's time to begin today's lesson. Please direct your attention to the projector screen." He grabbed a remote control from some pocket in his briefcase. "No doubt you all are wondering where your humble professor was during the first twenty minutes of class. I'll tell you; I was in the café drinking coffee and eating a cheese Danish. However, my absence served a purpose. Or more to the point, your _presence_ served that purpose." He hit the play button. The video projector mounted at the back of the classroom blinked to life and soon the projector screen was filled with an image of an empty classroom from the viewpoint of the professor's desk. _Or more accurately, from the lectern_.

Dr. Cabrini proceeded to walk the class through the twenty minutes of video, briefly highlighting each student. He pointed out what each student was doing at the given moment he focused on them and had the class offer reasons for why they were engaging in such activities, from Garfield Logan's reading a comic book to Raven's reading the text book to Dick's constant writing.

"Working on an essay, Grayson?"

"Not exactly," Dick answered casually.

"Class, what do you think he was doing?"

"Writing a letter to his girlfriend!" Garfield piped up.

"A letter to mommy!" Another student called out from the back.

The professor noticed a shadow momentarily darken Dick's face—something so slight that not many others would have perceived it. He also saw Raven wince slightly from her seat in the back before looking to Dick with the barest hints of concern.

"He's probably just working on our assignment for Professor Long," another student muttered.

Class continued in this fashion for nearly an hour as Dr. Cabrini covered the entire twenty-minute video. When it ended he powered down the projector and lofted the screen.

"Well I hoped you all enjoyed the introductory part of class," he said. "Now for the fun part. Take out your notebooks."

Dick smirked as he reopened his. Thankfully he was far enough away from the front row that the professor couldn't see what was written there.

"I want you to take note of two students sitting near you; beside you, in front of you, behind you, whatever. Now, based on what we've just discussed regarding actions and body language as keys to understanding personality, I would like you to write simple profiles of two students sitting near you. Be as thorough as you can, and feel free to use the textbook to help you better apply what you learned from the video. You may leave when you've finished this assignment, but be aware that we only have thirty minutes left of class time." Dr. Cabrini made sure that his instructions were clear before returning to sit at his desk, taking a long swig of cool coffee, and pulling a John Grisham novel out of his briefcase.

The students wordlessly complied, some sighing slightly in dejection as they grabbed their textbooks from their bags. Most, like Garfield, opened their textbooks to chapter one and began reading, hoping to find something within the first chapter to help them. Others, like Raven, didn't bother to refer to their books and simply began writing.

The one oddity was Dick. He clicked his pen and added a few things here and there to his earlier notes. Five minutes later he tore five sheets of notebook paper along their perforated edges, dog-eared them together, and put his name on them. Then he packed his notebook into his bag, grabbed the 'assignment', and promptly dropped it on the professor's desk.

"What's this?" Dr. Cabrini asked, startled out from behind his book.

"The assignment," Dick informed him. "See you next Monday."

Cabrini put his book aside and grabbed Dick's collection of papers. A note in the top margin read:

_Here's what I was working on before class. You really should hide your surveillance equipment better next time. I overestimated the assignment, so I put a star next to the ones you can focus on._

It was signed with a smiley face.

The professor glanced up from the completed psychological profiles of the _entire class_ that Dick had just handed him, but Grayson had already left the classroom.

* * *

Dick, Raven, and Garfield sat in a booth in the back of Omega Pizza. This was only their third day of 'real' classes, and they had decided to celebrate their quasi-graduation from the summer program (which they had learned very quickly wasn't exactly geared for students of their particular backgrounds) into 'real' college.

"Hey guys! I'd like to propose a toast."

Both Dick and Raven looked up from their pizza with expressions of bemusement. Well, Dick looked bemused, Raven appeared disinterested.

"I'm serious!" Gar defended. "We just came from our first Monday of college! That merits celebration!"

"It does?" Raven asked dismissively.

"And what do you call what we did all summer?" Dick added.

Garfield rejected that notion with a wave of his hand. "Naw, dude, that was the _summer_ program. You know, where they send all G.E.D rejects and dumb jocks who got in on scholarship? This is _real_ college now. I think it deserves a toast."

"Uh, Gar, _I'm_ one of those G.E.D. rejects," Dick pointed out.

"Ditto," Raven droned.

Garfield simpered and sat back down again. "Heh heh, yeah well… I still think we should celebrate the start of fall and stuff."

"You won't be saying that come midterms," said Dick.

"No… but for now I can say it, so I am. So… who's with me?" He raised his cup of soda invitingly.

Dick shrugged and clinked—er, tapped, glasses with him. After a considerable pause Raven gave in and joined them.

"Good. Now that that's over with, what did you guys think of that psych class?"

"I like the professor's style," Raven answered definitively.

"You mean how he began the class with an experiment, or his plain and simple no bullshit attitude?" Dick asked her.

"… Both."

"Yeah but what about that assignment," Garfield piped up. "You don't find it the least bit creepy that the dude videotaped us for twenty minutes?"

"Guilty conscience?" Raven deadpanned.

Gar glared half-heartedly. "I'm serious. He leaves us to sit in class and twiddle our thumbs and then pulls out that he got it on tape. I mean, we could have just walked out, since the guy was like, a no-show. He could have gotten to his class and found it empty. Not a good way to start the year."

"Actually, Gar," Dick interjected, "he still had another five minutes before we could have legally walked."

"Huh?"

"Department head. We're supposed to give them twenty five minutes before we can leave," Raven explained tonelessly. "And since he was a world-renown psychological profiler _before_ he settled into a teaching job, you can bet that he already knew that. Not to mention how small the odds were that people would walk on the first day of class."

"World renown?"

"Oh yeah," Dick chimed in. "He's written books, won all sorts of awards, and done some serious profile work on some of the nation's worst criminal minds—Harvey Dent, Ted Kazinski, Jonathan Crane—"

**FLASH!**

_A scrawny kid, crying, chased by a pack of bullies._

**FLASH!**

"Dude," Garfield's voice snapped Raven back to the present. "Guy sure got around."

Raven's eyes narrowed in thought. She seemed to be scrutinizing Garfield with more vigor that usual. Dick stared at Gar oddly for a second, pondering.

"I wonder if we'll actually get to look at any of his profiles," he mused aloud.

"Probably not," Raven answered. "They're classified."

"Speaking of profiles, what exactly was that novel you handed the professor?"

Dick laughed. "A profile…" Dick answered cryptically with a slight grin.

"Dude, _who_ did you profile that quickly?"

"You," Dick answered casually.

"_WHAT?_"

Raven smirked.

"And you," he redirected.

The smirk quickly left her face. "I wasn't sitting near you," she said, her voice bordering on threatening.

Dick's smartass reply was cut off by the sudden ringing of his cell phone.

"Hold that thought." He stood up from the table. "I'll be right back."

Raven and Garfield were left to stare off after him, their questions unanswered.

Dick had recognized the ringer instantly: _Rule Britannia_, the one he had set for Alfred's cell phone. This was Monday around six p.m., Alfred wasn't scheduled to call until Wednesday at eight. This unexpected call was either good news, or—

"Hi Alfred." His tone was guarded. A few tense seconds and then he audibly sighed in relief. "No, it's just that I wasn't expecting your call… Just eating pizza with some friends of mine… No, no, I can still eat… Yeah… Yeah, that sounds great, Alf… Wait, what do you mean? My left? … Oooooohhhh." Dick grinned like an idiot as he waved to Alfred, who was parking the Jag across the street on his left. Then, back into the phone, "I'm just going to go tell my friends I'm leaving."

"So… who do you think called him?" Garfield broke the long silence at the table.

"I have no idea," Raven answered.

"Probably his girlfriend back in Gotham," Gar insinuated.

Raven's look darkened. "He doesn't _have_ a girlfriend."

"And how would you know that?"

"How do you?" she redirected.

"Uh, have you ever seen a Gotham tabloid?"

"Have you ever heard mention of a girlfriend?"

"Dude… ette, when does he _ever_ talk about his personal life?"

"Some people like to keep their personal lives personal." The mini-debate was then broken up by Dick's return.

"So how's your girlfriend?"

Dick smirked. "That wasn't my girlfriend—"

"See!"

"That wasn't an admission."

"Yeah but it wasn't a denial, either."

Dick blinked in confusion. "Uh… did I miss something?"

Raven and Garfield exchanged glances but said nothing.

"Okay… Well anyway, I'm going to dinner with my…" _Butler? Grandfather? Manservant?_ "Alfred!"

"Dude, you have an Alfred?" Gar was too confused to insinuate anything.

"Yeah. Doesn't everybody?"

Raven stared in deadpan while Gar blinked a few times.

"If not, then they really should. _Everybody_ needs an Alfred."

"Are you ready, Master Dick?"

The gentleman in question walked into the pizza shop. Raven briefly touched on his surface thoughts and caught glimpses of a menu at some high-scale restaurant as well as a general feeling of pride towards Dick concerning his summer session grades. Satisfied, Raven backed off.

"All set." Dick was about to leave when he suddenly remembered it was Alfred taking him out. That meant—"Oh, yeah. Alfred, this is Raven Roth and Garfield Logan, some friends from school."

"Ah yes," said Alfred, recognizing the names. "So nice to finally meet Richard's friends from university. However, you will have to excuse us. I've made reservations for seven."

Dick flashed a smile and waved goodbye. "See ya later, guys. Help yourself to my pizza." And Dick and his Alfred exited the pizza shop, leaving Garfield and Raven in not quite comfortable silence once again.

"Aw man, I wish I had some old guy to take me out for expensive dinners."

Raven glanced at him.

A brief pause.

"Do you realize how wrong that sounded?"

* * *

Dr. Franklin Beach was revising his syllabus for his criminal investigation class. Apparently more than half the class was on the football team, and it was his official duty to the school to make his class schedule neatly coincide with their travel schedule. That meant no large projects could be due on Fridays (when half the class would be absent for away games), which meant major syllabus revision.

He was interrupted by a knock on his office door.

"Am I interrupting?" Dr. Xavier Cabrini stuck his head in the door.

"Yes," Dr. Beach answered. "And thank you."

Cabrini chuckled and entered fully into the office. "What are you working on?"

Beach sighed. "Syllabus revision."

Cabrini frowned. "The football team?"

"Why can't they just stick to geology and sports medicine?"

"Because that would make life easy."

Dr. Beach turned off his computer monitor and sat back in his chair. "What can I do for you, Xavier?"

Dr. Cabrini claimed the chair beside Beach's desk; the one that students would sit in during office appointments. "You wouldn't have to have a kid by the name of Grayson in class, would you?"

Beach considered for a moment. "Grayson… The name sounds familiar."

Cabrini smirked. "It should. He's a criminology major."

Beach snapped his fingers. "Of course! Thin, quiet kid, blue eyes."

Cabrini nodded.

"I'm his advisor." Pause. "Why do you ask?"

"Do you remember me telling you about my little experiment for the introductory students?"

"Vaguely," Beach admitted. "You were going to videotape them for profiling, or something."

"Right."

"And did you?"

"Of course," Cabrini confessed with a laugh. "It worked splendidly, too."

"Oh?"

"The students were more than willing to hypothesize about their fellow classmates in the face of undeniable video evidence."

Beach had to chuckle at that. "I'm sure. So what's this have to do with Richard Grayson?"

Cabrini sighed, his expression turning serious. "What do you know about him?"

Beach laughed outright. "You mean you don't know? What with all your time in Gotham I would have thought—"

"Thought what?"

"He's Bruce Wayne's kid."

Cabrini's eyes bugged. "Bruce Wayne? The billionaire?"

Beach nodded.

"But I didn't know he _had_ any kids."

"Well Richard isn't really his," Beach explained. "When his parents were murdered Wayne took the kid in as his ward."

Cabrini chuckled and shook his head.

"What's so funny?"

"I remember now. I was up at Arkham working with Gordon on Harvey Dent's profile. Wayne fought for custody of the boy because he felt they shared some sort of bond, what with their parents meeting similar ends when they were at similar ages."

"Makes sense," Beach conceded. "But why the sudden interest in him?"

"Frank, why do you think a kid—the son of murdered parents, who grew up with one of the world's richest men as his guardian, would want go to school for criminology?"

"He wants a career in criminal justice," Beach provided, even though the question was rhetorical. "We talked about it during his interview. He said that he wants to help ensure that other children aren't left orphaned."

Cabrini nodded thoughtfully. "Law?"

Beach shook his head. "I highly doubt it. He has a weird aversion to lawyers."

Cabrini snorted. "With all the corporate goings on he got to be privy to during dinner conversation I can't say that I blame him. Law enforcement?"

"That would be my guess."

"Cop or FBI?"

Beach shrugged. "Not sure. Didn't really ask."

Cabrini grabbed his briefcase and pulled it into his lap. "Did I tell you what I was going to have them do for an assignment to go along with this lesson?" he asked.

Beach shook his head. "Damned if I remember. I stopped keeping track of your sadistic methods of torturing students years ago."

Cabrini pulled Dick's completed assignment from a folder within. "I was going to have them use what they saw on the tape as the basis to write simple personality profiles of two of their classmates."

"Sounds like something you would do. Let me guess, Grayson's profiles were descriptive and accurate."

Cabrini nodded. "He used the Briggs-Myers typological system and even included citations."

Beach chuckled. "So the kid's well read," he dismissed. "Who'd he profile, _you_?"

To his complete and utter surprise, Cabrini nodded seriously and tossed Dick's assignment onto the desk. "Along with every student in the room, including himself."

Dr. Beach's jaw dropped slightly as he reached for the collection of loose-leaf paper. He flipped through it, skimming each page. A rough personality profile sketch was written up for every student—including himself and Dr. Cabrini. A few of Dick's observations made Beach laugh.

"Any of these accurate?" he asked when he was done.

"I've read his profiles over a dozen times. I've even restudied the tape. I'm inclined to agree with most of what he said in there." Cabrini indicated the paper. "His take on things is a bit cynical for my tastes, but…"

Dr. Beach couldn't help but laugh. "What's with the naming system?" his trained eye also noted that the students were assigned identification numbers that corresponded to a five by seven figure matrix (row by column) for where each student was seated in class. Some had names written next to the number while others had their names filled in at the end.

"He started with the front left desk and moved by column," Cabrini explained. "The names he added at the end I can only assume he learned during roll call."

Beach let out an impressed whistle. "And he did all this before class ended?"

Cabrini shook his head. "Before it began," he corrected. "Read the note at the top."

Beach did so. "Where _did_ you hide the camera our friends at the bureau lent you?"

"In the lamp attached to the lectern."

Beach's eyes bugged again. "In the _lamp_? How the hell did he spot it?"

Cabrini shrugged. "Hell if I know. My best guess is that the recording light reflected in the brass of the lamp."

Beach pursed his lips in thought. "Well, Grayson's probably lived with security cameras most of his life. It's only natural that he'd be adept at spotting them."

Cabrini nodded thoughtfully. "What do you think, Frank?"

Beach shrugged. "Grayson's not your average student," he mused. "He spotted the camera, deduced the assignment, and completed it in spades." A thoughtful pause. "What was he like on the tape? During class?"

Cabrini sighed. "Well, he walked into class with a few other students. He sat next to Garfield Logan—you know, the child actor? They shot the shit for a few and then Grayson pulled out his notebook and Logan stuck his nose in a comic book. Then suddenly Grayson started writing. He pointed out the camera's location in _my_ profile—makes a rather cheeky observation about it, and about what my inclination to watch the class on closed-circuit TV says about my personality."

Beach laughed outright. "He did, did he?" Another thoughtful pause. "He knew you were watching in the other room?"

Cabrini shrugged. "I guess he deduced that, too. Maybe because he noticed that I knew exactly where and when to direct that students' attention to a particular classmate."

Beach laughed again. "How were his comments during the discussion?"

"Well that's just it," said Cabrini. "He didn't volunteer any opinions. He didn't even take notes! All he did was sit there and pay attention to his classmates. Even when they offered rather crudely humorous profiles of him. He laughed some, but mostly he was just attentive."

"He wanted to blindside you, eh?"

"That's my guess. He admitted to a certain level of arrogance in his own profile. I think he wanted to offer a more favorable impression than when we first met."

Dr. Beach sat up straighter. "Oh?"

"I found him half passed out on the side of the road last July on my way into work one morning—early. He'd been out jogging… over five miles from campus."

Beach paled slightly. "Didn't he live on campus?"

Cabrini nodded. "I dropped him off at the dorm myself."

Beach shook his head in disbelief. "If that was my first meeting with a professor I knew I'd be taking classes with, I guess I'd want to make a more favorable impression, too."

Cabrini snorted a laugh. "We both know of the… quality… of work that students of the summer session are generally capable of. I suppose I did just take him for another dumb jock—Lord knows we give enough scholarships away to them. I even razzed him about it at the beginning of class—all in fun, of course."

Beach laughed and shook his head again. "Well I'll bet he was just raring to one-up you then, wasn't he."

Cabrini accepted the observation. Then he turned serious again. "I pulled his admissions files," he said.

Beach frowned; professors—even department heads such as themselves, weren't generally allowed to go mucking about in admissions.

"He has a G.E.D from someplace called Brentwood and scored 1520 on his SATs. I wish I could have gotten a hold of his entrance essay; the English department must have it somewhere."

"He's a sharp kid," said Beach. "But we've already proven that. What's your point?"

"He's one of yours," said Cabrini. "Encourage him. Maybe point him towards the bureau. A mind like his…"

Beach laughed again. "The kid shows you up in front of your whole damn class and you sound like you're ready to adopt him."

Cabrini frowned deeply for a moment. Beach's humored look suddenly turned to one of apology and regret.

"Xavier—"

"Forget about it," he dismissed easily. "Frank, the kid has a brilliant mind. I want him to be encouraged to use it. He shouldn't waste his gifts by following in his guardian's footsteps and becoming the figurehead C.E.O. of Wayne Enterprises."

Beach nodded, seeing how serious his friend was. "As his advisor, I shall do my best," he promised formally, earning a disarming grin from his long-time friend and colleague that said without words _you're full of it, Frank_. The two of them laughed and Cabrini stood from the chair.

"Well, I have papers to grade, and Alice wants me home for dinner on time tonight."

"It's been fun, as always," Beach returned, earning him a repeat performance of the half-hearted glare. He stood as well and the two gentlemen shook hands. "Oh, and have Alice call Shelly when she gets the chance. Something about casserole recipes."

Cabrini smiled and nodded that he would before heading for the door.

"Oh, Xavier?" Beach called after him.

"Yes?" Cabrini stuck his head back in the door.

"You aren't going to start next Monday with another experiment, are you?"

Cabrini smiled a Cheshire-cat smile. "And what? Try and see how many of my designs our little prodigy can outfox?"

Beach rolled his eyes. "I had to ask…"

"Good night, Frank."

"Night, Xavier."

Dr. Xavier Cabrini left his old friend's office and shut the door. Dr. Frank Beach reclined in his chair and thoughtfully rubbed his chin.

"I wonder if the kid's as brilliant as his adoptive father was."

* * *

Alfred took Dick to one of the more upscale restaurants on Long Island. Apparently Bruce frequented it whenever he was in this neck of the woods for Wayne Corp. business because Alfred knew the maitre' d by name and had their 'usual table' already waiting.

The meal was pleasant and they made adequate small talk conversing about such things as were appropriate for the setting they were in; and since they hadn't spoken face to face in months, they had a lot to talk about.

Finally the conversation wore down.

"So what brings you to Long Island, Alfred?"

"What? Can't I take one of my boys out for a decent meal every now and then? I know how that dormitory cuisine can be."

"Oh, I'm all for the spontaneous excursion for good food, but it hardly seems your style, Alfred. Especially since you showed up with one of the sedans. Someone important needed a luxurious back seat?"

Alfred paused for a good moment, and then slowly a smirk touched the corners of his mouth. "I'm quite pleased that you haven't become lax in your detective skills, Master Dick. Indeed, my primary purpose was to shuttle Master Bruce off to an important board meeting in the city."

"Figured as much," Dick replied, not really sounding happy with his brilliant deduction.

"He's currently entertaining some foreign visitors at some _other_ upscale restaurant and hotel," Alfred continued. "Thus leaving me free for the evening."

Dick smirked in return. "It's nice that his busy schedule left you time to visit me." The smirk fell. "Bruce didn't tell me he was going to be in town."

"He does not believe that you would want to see him," Alfred returned matter-of-factly.

"Since when does he care what I want?"

Alfred couldn't repress a sigh, and decided to change the subject. "The manor hasn't been the same since you left."

"Well you know, Alf, if ever you feel like moving out of Gotham, my dorm room could really use your help."

Alfred managed a small scowl at the comment. It's so like Master Dick to cover his true emotions with banal humor.

"If I haven't taught you anything of basic housekeeping by now, Master Dick, I'm afraid that you're already beyond hope."

"Like Bruce?"

Alfred scowl deepened. "Actually, Master Dick, I don't think it's possible for _anyone_ to be as bad as Master Bruce. You can at least tie your own tie without help."

Light laughter settled into silence.

"How long is Bruce in town for?"

"We're supposed to leave tomorrow morning," Alfred answered, his face losing the unbecoming scowl at last. "But I don't think it would be too hard to convince him to take a few days off and remain here."

"And miss the Gotham night life?" Dick dismissed. "I wouldn't bet on it."

Alfred chose not to comment on the cynicism. "He really would like to see you, my boy."

Dick's fierce resolve to be angry and bitter didn't really stand a chance against Alfred's blatant sincerity. "Where's he staying?" he gave in and asked.

Alfred smiled a genuine smile. "He's in his suite over in the Pennsylvania. Shall I tell him you'll be dropping by?"

Dick smirked. "Actually Alfred, I think I'd like to surprise him."

* * *

Dick pulled into the parking lot of the Pennsylvania Hotel and Suites around ten thirty that night. All he had to do was show his credentials as a major shareholder in Wayne Industries in order to be granted permission to park. He left the car in the garage and went up to the lobby. Once again, all he needed to do was show positive ID and he was given a key to Bruce Wayne's penthouse suite.

Dick used the key card to access the express elevator. However, he bypassed the eighteenth floor, where the suite was, and continued on to the twenty-fourth. From here he easily 'found' his way to the roof access stairwell. After tricking the alarms, Dick made his way to the roof of the hotel. This is where he ditched the oversized trench coat and donned the eye mask. He still wasn't quite used to the weight and feel of this new suit, but he was learning fast. Lots of time in the gym working on acrobatics with weight bands was seeing to that.

At least all the good toys were included… along with a few new ones.

Especially the grappling gun.

* * *

Gotham's favorite playboy billionaire walked into the living room from the bathroom, wearing a terrycloth robe and towel-drying his hair. He hated these meetings that Bruce Wayne had to attend. At least this time it was only a dinner meeting, as opposed to a long day spent in some upper boardroom in the New York headquarters building.

He meandered over to the end table to check his messages. He was certain that the phone rang while he was in the shower, and only too late did he remember that Alfred wasn't there to answer it. What was it about board meetings that made him more exhausted than an entire night's patrolling?

He had picked up the receiver and was about to dial his voicemail box when he suddenly sensed a cold draft waft across the room. A narrowed gaze caught the slight movement of curtains through the shadows. Then a disembodied voice came from somewhere to his right.

"If I were a sniper you'd be dead by now."

Bruce Wayne relaxed a bit—it was only Dick. Then his anger boiled. It was Dick.

"If you're wearing a costume, you'll be dead shortly." _The__voice_.

Robin stepped out of the shadows. "Aw, but you made it so nice," he mock-whined. "The Kevlar itches a bit, but other than that…"

"So do powder burns. What are you doing here, _Robin_?"

"I had a reliable tip that you were lonely this evening."

"The company I was hoping for would have come in through the front door."

"If you were the one to ask him to come, he might have."

Bruce's eyes narrowed to slits. "I might have, if he didn't have the nasty habit of ignoring my phone calls."

"If you'd have bothered to leave a message I might have called you back."

Bruce snorted a laugh. "Might."

It wasn't a question.

A tense silence hung in the air.

Finally Robin broke it. "So was there really a meeting, or did you finally devise the perfect excuse to come and check up on me?"

Suddenly and surprisingly, the stony gaze of The Batman left Bruce's face. "No, but if that were true… you really didn't leave me any other options."

Dick smirked, unaffected. "What? Just dropping by without pretense out of the question or something?"

"Would you have believed me if I did?"

Dick sighed and ran a hand through his spiked hair. He really didn't come here to fight with Bruce. Or, well, maybe he did, but still…

"Look, you wanted to see me, I'm here. We can either talk, or I can leave, but standing here and pissing each other off isn't the way I wanted to spend the evening."

Bruce seemed to nod. "Take the mask off, and we'll talk."

Dick snickered. "That's a funny request coming from you."

"I thought you said you didn't want to stand here and piss me off?" The voice again.

Dick back-peddled a few paces, slowly, towards the open window. "Well could I still use my crime-fighter voice?" he asked in a mocking tone that resonated very much like Batman's.

Bruce couldn't say anything to that, so he didn't.

"Well it's been real nice seeing you again, Bats," Dick continued, "but this conversation has given me the desperate urge to go jump off a building." Then, faster than Bruce could react, Robin launched himself backwards and exited the window, head first on purpose just to piss off the Batman.

Bruce made it to the window in time to see Robin freefalling, head first with his back towards the pavement below. Bruce gripped the windowsill white-knuckled and watched in slow motion as the stories ticked by—ten (_any second he'll pull out the grappling gun_)… five (_Dick, now would be a damn good time!_)… three (_mother of_—)

WOOSH-CLINK!

Dick grabbed the gun from his belt and fired at a streetlight. It wrapped around the crossbar and Dick retracted the cord as he fell. In a sweeping arc his toes nearly dusted the two feet of pavement between two cabs before his momentum carried him back up and around the crossbar. He reeled himself in some more and made another loop around so that he could bring himself into a perch atop it. Robin spared a slight wave in the vague direction of Bruce's window before detaching the grappling hook from the crossbar and reloading it into the gun. Then he was flying off into the night and out of view.

Bruce seriously considered going after him… if only he could pry his fingers from the windowsill.

* * *

Alfred Pennyworth keyed himself into the suite. He had been hoping to hear the happy sounds of conversation, indicating that Master Dick had indeed stopped by. Instead he heard only silence, and he sighed.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred saw across the living room that the door to the master bedroom was ajar. He was on his way there when he noticed that the door to the liquor cabinet had been left opened. "Oh dear…"

Then he noticed the nineteen-year-old bottle of single malt scotch was sitting on the table, its volume a little lower than Alfred remembered. "Oh, dear…"

Steeling his resolve, he went over to the master bedroom and knocked on the door. "Master Bruce?"

"The suit looked good on him, Alfred."

Alfred took that as permission to enter. He saw Bruce, standing in his bathrobe holding a half-finished glass of scotch and staring out the window.

"He's been training."

"Did you really expect him not to, sir?"

Alfred approached with guarded footsteps and came to stand beside Bruce, who took another sip of scotch. His face contorted slightly, proving how seldom he drank.

"I had hoped."

Alfred knew he needed to tread carefully. After all, he's only seen Bruce drink something more powerful than wine once before: the night after Dick woke up in the hospital.

"I doubt that his reappearance as Robin would have been enough to send you running for the Oban."

Bruce snorted without humor.

"May I inquire as to what happened?"

"He wanted me to see… what he saw. Feel what he felt."

"Master Bruce?"

"At the circus."

It took several moments for meaning to sink in. "… Good heavens..."

"He dove out the window head first and stayed in freefall until he was passing the third floor… His back was to the ground; he had to make the grappling shot blind. I didn't even see when he grabbed it from his belt."

Silence stretched for many moments. Bruce took another grimacing sip of scotch.

"Did the two of you talk?"

More silence.

Alfred sighed tiredly. "I think I'll turn in of the evening. Good night, Master Bruce."

He had made it to the door when Bruce called out:

"Find out when Dick's free tomorrow."

"Very good, sir."

* * *

AN-Dick Grayson is the 2nd best detective in the world, behind Batman. And of course he isn't being a good little vigilante and disguising his skills so as not to arouse suspicion. Expect this to come back and bite him later.

Also, criminology is what Dick feels will best help him with crime-fighting, psych and philosophy—especially eastern philosophy and religion, is what Raven will use to simultaneously help her deal with Trigon and the world around her, and Zoology seemed like the perfect thing to have Beast Boy study.


	6. Beast Boy meets Cyborg

Garfield Logan was writing furiously in his notebook. Introductory biology began with a quick intro and then launched straight into the lecture. The professor had gone through twelve full-text PowerPoint screens already, and class was barely halfway over.

And after bio, he got to go deal with introductory chemistry. As the professor blipped to the thirteenth screen of notes, Gar was certain of two things: first, he would need to buy a bigger notebook, and second, Tuesdays and Thursdays were really going to suck.

When class finally ended, Garfield couldn't feel his hand. He had only fifteen minutes lag time before chemistry started, and if chemistry was going to be _anything_ like biology—

"Hey, Logan!"

Garfield spun around and found himself face to face with Colossus. He blinked and stepped back, revealing that the _X-Men_ fan that had snagged his attention was none other than six foot, eight inch Victor Stone, who sat two desks behind him in biology.

"Uh… hi?"

"You _are_ Garfield Logan! I _knew_ it!"

"Uh, dude, do I know you?"

"Oh, my bad." Victor then offered a rather large hand. "Victor Stone. I sit behind you in bio."

"… Right." Gar tentatively took the hand, and a surprisingly non-crushing grip enveloped his hand in a handshake. "Garfield Logan. …But you already knew that."

"Of course I knew that!" Victor said with enthusiasm. "Who wouldn't recognize Tork?"

Garfield's eyes bugged. "Shhhhhh!" He waved his hands emphatically and grabbed Victor's shirt, pulling him in closer. "Never say that word aloud," he stage-whispered in Victor's ear.

Victor blinked in surprise, and then stood up. Gar's arm straightened and he had to let go of the shirt before being hoisted into the air.

"I'm serious!" he insisted. "No one here can know about that!"

Once again Victor blinked in bemused surprise. "Why not?"

Gar, in less than subtle surreptitious fashion, glanced about quickly to see if anyone was watching or listening in. "Dude, do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have that show on your resume? I mean, I want more for myself and my future than the abysmal earnings of sci-fi convention appearances where old, fat dudes who still live in their parents' basement can ask me all about what I think of all the stupid Odo comparisons."

Victor laughed aloud. "Yeah, well that's ten times better than being asked to do this—" he took one large hand and covered the human side of his face. Then he made his electronic eye glow, and in a computerized and perfect imitation voice, he uttered: "'I'll be back'—at every family gathering."

Garfield burst out laughing. "DUUUUDE! That's _awesome_! …. Oh, sorry man."

Victor shrugged it off. "Tell me what you think of DS9 and we'll call it even."

* * *

"Dude, I think my wrist needs an ice pack," Gar whined to Victor as the two left chemistry class together. "And I thought the biology notes were bad. Can't they print them out for us or something?"

Victor laughed. "If they had the budget to waste on that much paper, you can just bet that there'd be _twice_ as many notes."

"Well, at least I wouldn't have to write them."

"Yeah, but you'd have to carry them."

"Excuse me."

Both Garfield and Victor stopped short as a tall man with dark hair and a Versace suit stepped in front of them on the sidewalk.

"Perhaps you can help me. I'm looking for Richard Grayson."

"Never met him," Victor answered casually.

"Uh… I think he just got out of class," said Gar. "If you head by the dorm, you might catch him."

The man smiled warmly. "Thanks." And he walked away.

"Uh… Who was that?" Victor asked.

Gar blinked. "Bruce Wayne."

Victor's jaw dropped. "As in, C.E.O. of Wayne Enterprises Bruce Wayne?"

"Yup."

"Whoa… So what brings a billionaire to Hudson U?"

"Richard Grayson."

Victor blinked. "I say again, what brings a billionaire to Hudson?"

"And _I_ say again, Richard Grayson," Garfield said with mock impatience. "His former ward."

Victor blinked in confusion… again. "Ward? As in foster kid?"

Gar tensed briefly, but let it slide. "Not really. Court-appointed legal guardian. No pretending to be a family whatsoever."

Victor nodded in feigned understanding. "So, I take it you know this Grayson kid?"

"He lives on my floor. Pretty cool guy, actually. I survived summer math because of him."

Victor nodded absently again. "Anyway… I'm starving. You?"

"Dude, totally! Pizza?"

"Cool. Know a place?"

"Oh man, do I ever!"

* * *

Dick was on his way back to the dorm. The class he just came from, introduction to criminology, was unfortunately shaping up to be his most boring class to date. After all, the entire syllabus consisted of things he learned at ten, from a far more… interesting… instructor. At least he had the time to nap before economics later on, if criminology really _does_ put him to sleep.

As tired and disinterested as he was, his keen observation skills were still fully tuned to the world around him.

"Bruce…" he spotted the billionaire standing casually outside the main entrance to the dorms, a trench coat slung over one shoulder.

"Hi Dick!" Bruce called out, waving and smiling brightly. He would have known Dick anywhere, no matter what he was wearing. So when the boy finally stepped into view… come to think of it, what _was_ he wearing? Gone were the khakis, loose sweaters, and loafers of the high-flying ward of the billionaire. In their place was a pair of dark boot-cut jeans, Doc Martins, and a black tee shirt over a gray long sleeve shirt that read _one by one the penguins are stealing my sanity_. Bruce didn't have time to react to the shirt, however. He was too busy noticing how Dick's hair had grown out, and hung in his face in front of his eyes.

"You know, with my credit card, you should be able to afford better."

Dick's eyes narrowed behind the bangs. "Nice to see you too, Bruce."

"At least now I know why you stunk of hair gel. If you're going for stealth, you might want to try a different brand."

Dick's jaw clenched but he swiftly forced himself to relax. "And Bruce Wayne should work on his choice of cologne." Then he snorted. "And this is such a wonderful conversation for a public doorway."

"There's no one within forty feet of us," Bruce returned. "Take a look."

Dick decided not to argue the point. "So what brings you to Hudson University? I doubt you would have bothered with a day off just to return my trench."

"It was as good an excuse as any," said Bruce, his voice unreadable. "And speaking of public places…"

Dick smirked in spite of himself. "You wanna take this someplace more private?"

"Please." A simple request; no more, no less.

Dick sighed and brushed his hair out of his eyes. "My room," he said definitively. "You're probably itching to see it anyway."

"Sure." That patented Bruce Wayne smile. Dick repressed the urge to slug him for it. Instead he gestured half-heartedly for Bruce to follow him and he led the way up to his dorm room.

"I like what you've done with the place," he said casually… right into the surveillance camera hidden in the new ceiling light fixture. Dick didn't see it though; he was too busy shutting the door behind them.

"Can I have my coat?"

Bruce tossed it to him. "That's a nice coat. You should be more careful about where you leave it."

"I'll try and remember that," Dick said flatly as he walked over to his closet.

Bruce's trained eyes swept across the rather upscale dorm room. The bed was shoved into one corner, but at least it was made. Then he noticed the large contemporary C.E.O. style desk up against the next wall, in front of the windows. The rather large bookshelf—stocked mostly with text and reference books, did a sufficient job at blocking the natural lighting. Of course, Bruce didn't think that mattered much to Dick, since his few desk and reading lamps had black or red light bulbs in them.

In the far corner Dick had placed a corner-unit entertainment center, complete with flat-screen TV, DVD, VCR, and four-hundred-disc CD changer. Bose speakers were efficiently hung or placed about the room to give whoever sat on the futon on the near wall the complete surround-sound experience. If Bruce didn't know better, he'd swear that Dick had a few video game consoles hidden somewhere, too.

In all honestly though, Bruce had expected this… excess. Dick was free, on his own, with nearly unlimited money to burn. Of course he'd go to town when it came to accessorizing his dorm room with the latest and greatest. It's what Bruce would have done if he went to real college at Dick's age.

Cool gadgets and gizmos aside, what really stuck out about Dick's dorm room was the decidedly dark and… un-Dick Grayson it was. The expensive area rug that covered most of the floor was a shade of deep vermillion with black spots akin to someone slopping around a wet paintbrush. Eclectic posters were neatly hung to cover most of the walls. There was the classically overdone patriotic Superman poster, a reprint of a German publicity poster for Goethe's _Faust_, a black and white sketch rendition of a creepy-looking Trent Reznor, a framed calendar portrait of Arkham Asylum from last year's historical society fundraiser, a movie reprint poster for _To Kill a Mockingbird_, and a rather lovely poster of Wonder Woman doing her best Betty Page impression.

"I'll never understand why the Justice League decided to shamelessly self-promote," Bruce chastised.

Dick smirked. "As I recall, they did it for charity. All but one member, I believe."

Bruce snorted. "The Wayne Foundation made a rather large donation to the cause," he defended.

"Yeah? So did Oliver Queen, and rumor has it he's putting his name to a line of hunting arrows next to benefit wildlife conservation."

Bruce grumbled. "What's next? Barry taking a Reebok endorsement?"

Dick shrugged. "Either that, or batman action figures. Look, I am vengeance! I am _the night!_ I am… suitable for ages three and up."

Bruce leveled his fiercest scowl.

"Complete with karate chop action?"

"Enough." _The voice._

Dick's smile faded into a smirk. "Okay, so I won't try and get you a signed one for Christmas."

"Watch it, or I'll get you a pair of Robin-logo flannel pajamas."

Dick's eyes widened devilishly. "Would that count as you giving me a costume to wear?"

"You're impossible," the voice growled. Bruce spun around to head for the door, angry enough to momentarily not care about his original purpose for the visit.

That's when he saw the faded, framed publicity poster for Haly's Circus hanging on the back of Dick's door. He stopped in his tracks, trapped by the smiling faces of the Flying Graysons.

Dick saw Bruce's reaction to the poster, and suddenly their 'discussion' wasn't so fun anymore. For a split second, they both were reliving the exact same moment in time.

"I never had flannel PJs in the circus," Dick said after the moment had passed. His voice was colored by an almost whimsical nostalgia; whimsical and sad. "The first I ever owned were the racecar ones you gave me for my very first Christmas at the manor…"

Bruce nearly smiled. "You wore them all the time. Finally Alfred had to throw them away; he was tired of repairing them."

Dick snorted a laugh. "I don't think I spoke to him for two whole days after that."

"Three, but who's counting? He eventually won you over with a replacement pair of larger racecar flannel pajamas."

This time Dick laughed outright. "And I was so afraid that I'd wear them out that I hardly ever wore them. Alfred gave them away to Good Will the following year."

Bruce couldn't help but finally laugh. "And once again you didn't speak to him for three days."

"I still have the third pair of racecar flannel pajamas he bought me. They're getting a bit short in the legs though."

Bruce nodded. "You've grown."

Suddenly Dick felt uncomfortable with way the conversation was headed. "Yeah, well… it was good to see you, Bruce, but I have to get ready for class."

Bruce looked at his watch. Dick's economics class wasn't for another forty-five minutes. "Of course…" he nodded, trying to convince Dick that he was convinced by the dismissal. "I'll leave you to it." He turned to go.

"I'll walk you down."

"I can find my way."

"Actually, I need to escort you. Housing policy."

Bruce nodded his consent and gestured for Dick to precede him. Dick opened the door and the two of them made their way down the hall, to the elevator, down to the first floor, and out of the building in silence. Now they stood on the front steps of the building in silence, failing miserably at saying goodbye.

"Hudson isn't all that far away from Gotham. I could come down sometime; we could do lunch."

Dick nodded slowly, clicking his teeth. "I'd love to, Bruce, I really would, but I doubt either of us will find the time."

"Yes, well… I've got to run. Alfred's waiting with the car."

"Tell him to drive safely."

"Will do."

Bruce waved. Dick waved back. Bruce turned and walked away. Dick's eyes followed him until he disappeared around a corner. Then he released the breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

* * *

"And how did it go?" Alfred asked as Bruce Wayne approached the Jag.

"He's done well for himself," Bruce answered a bit too casually.

Alfred frowned slightly as he opened the door. "Indeed, sir." He went around to the driver's side and let himself in. He glanced at Bruce in the rear view and saw him staring distantly out the side window in the vague direction of Dick's dorm room.

"Did you at least manage to talk about anything, sir?"

Bruce kept his gaze out the window. "Buy him a new pair of racecar flannel pajamas for Christmas, Alfred. He's outgrown the last ones."

"Outgrowing clothes is a side effect of growing up, sir," Alfred observed.

Bruce was silent.

The gentleman's gentleman sighed as he started the car and shifted into gear, deciding that now was not the appropriate time to give the boy a further piece of his mind.

The car radio roared to life with the engine.

_And as I hung up the phone it occurred to me: he'd grown up just like me. My boy was just like me. And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon, little boy blue and the man on the moon— _

"Alfred?" (_When you comin' home son?—_)

"Sir?" (_I don't know when, but we'll get together then—_)

"Turn that off."(_–son._)

"Yes, sir." (–_You know we'll have a good time then._)

—CLICK—

* * *

"Dude, I'm telling ya, arcane denials are totally kick ass!"

"Naw man, straight counter-spells. Cost the same, and don't allow your enemy to draw cards."

"Correction, you don't need two blue mana, so it's great for a multi-color deck. _And_ _I_ like being able to draw cards."

"Then just build a deck with a high draw capacity. Problem solved!"

"Dude, I gotta get you in a game sometime. I have a royal butt-whooping green deck I just built before coming to Hudson."

"You got it with you?"

"Well, yeah…" Gar reached into the big pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out his Magic deck. "I'm always prepared!" he intoned as he slapped it down.

"Well I'll stack this white/red against your green any day of the week." Victor opened a compartment on his forearm and removed his own deck.

"Dude…"

Victor didn't quite know how to gauge Garfield's reaction.

"That's totally awesome!"

Thusly reassured, Victor laughed and shrugged it off. "Naw man. It's just something I can do."

"I bet you never had to worry about losing your house key as a kid."

The smile sort of fell from Victor's face. "Actually, I wasn't like this as a kid. What you see before you is the product of an accident three years ago."

"Whoa…" Garfield came to his senses quickly, however. "I was three I think," he said, not making eye contact. "I don't really remember what it was like to… not be green."

"That must have been rough," Victor spoke without thinking. "Going through middle school like that, I mean."

Gar simpered and shrugged. "Nothing was as hard as high school though," he deflected. "I changed schools a lot. You think that'd make it easier, with the whole never getting to know anybody deal. But really it was just having to deal with everyone's first reactions over and over again."

Victor Stone looked on his new green friend with sympathy. "I was fifteen. I left public school and got a tutor… after I learned how to walk and talk again."

"I didn't hit public school until high school. I was… home-schooled, before that."

"Wow man," said Victor with a rather silly grin. "It seems we have more in common than I thought. Oh, aside from being in the National Registry of Metahumans n'all."

Garfield laughed at that. Then a wild gleam entered his eyes. "Wonder Woman or Black Canary?"

"Wonder Woman," Victor answered without hesitation. "Hands down. Five foot, eleven inches of pure Amazonian whoop ass! You?"

Garfield shrugged. "I'd go with Black Canary. I've always preferred blonds."

"To each their own I suppose," said Victor. Then he sighed. "You know, it's been a long time since I've been able to talk to anyone about… stuff, I guess."

"Yeah me too," Garfield confessed. "Well, there's Dick, but we don't really talk. I mean, not about… stuff. I mean, we talk and stuff, but not about stuff, you know what I mean?"

Victor's facial expression was one of complete and total confusion.

"What I mean is, he's never asked me, you know, why I'm green? And he never talks much about himself, either."

Victor finally nodded in understanding. "Yeah I think I get it," he said. Then he smiled. "Hey, look. I'll tell you all about my stuff if you tell me all about your stuff. Then, we'll both have someone to talk stuff with."

"DUUUDE!"

Garfield listened intently while Victor Stone began his life's story; or more precisely, the story of his life as a cybernetic being.

Victor spoke of growing up in Metropolis as the only son of research scientists for S.T.A.R. Labs. His parents always put work before family, and Victor always wondered at how they managed to stay married with such philosophies, though it probably had something to do with how disgustingly similar they were on such thoughts. It was a marriage of convenience, and Victor always held himself to be the product of some experiment involving alcohol and the lack of contraceptives.

Gar listened as Victor told him about growing up with parents who only seemed to care about his existence around the time of the school science fair. The Stones were well off, Victor didn't want for anything that money could buy. All he ever wanted though was for his parents to take an active interest in his life. This only happened when they were either praising him for his science grades or reprimanding him for an afternoon spent playing football instead of studying physics.

As Victor got older, he discovered a substitute for parental attention: sports. Lifting weights was a way to vent his frustration, and playing ball with his friends earned him the type of social interaction and attention that was lacking at home. Then when he began his freshman year of high school, he made the varsity football team as a starting defensive tackle. His parents voiced their deep disapproval, but by then they were too busy working on some top-secret government contract to keep tabs on their son's daily comings and goings. Victor knew the type of dedication his parents wanted him to have towards the sciences and converted that into his athleticism. After his sophomore season colleges were already scouting him.

Of course a career in pro football was not meant to be. In the spring of his sophomore year Victor went to visit his parents at work. His parents were always thrilled when he expressed interest in their scientific research, and if they were in a good mood because he used this to his advantage, they would be less inclined to protest loudly in a public place when he informed them that he would be attending football camp that summer.

Unfortunately he never got the chance.

The Stones had two projects going at S.T.A.R. Labs: his father, Silas, was working on the integration of human tissues with cybernetic components as a way of helping disabled veterans while his mother, Elinore, was working on something highly classified for the federal government.

Slowly, methodically, Victor let the story unfold, his voice sounding oddly detached, as though he's had to tell this story over and over again many times, most likely to grief counselors and psychiatrists. Garfield listened, enraptured, as Victor told him how his father brought him into the heart of S.T.A.R. Labs to collect his mother, who must have lost track of time. He told Gar about how, because what she was working on was classified, it was some big conspiracy between his father and the MP guarding the door that allowed Silas to even bring his son into the lab. Once there, Silas gave his son the grand tour—making sure he kept his hands in his pockets and promised not to tell a soul about the visit.

Victor briefly described the layout of the labs, how it looked like an over-glorified high school science classroom, with the long tables for small-scale experimentation and testing, and added to that look the concept of wall-to-wall computer monitors and workstations. On the back wall there was an elevator that led down to some other equipment room, partitioned off by a roof of triple-thick shatterproof glass. Supposedly some sort of inter-dimensional portal was housed in that room—supposed because they hadn't been able to get the darn thing to work yet.

The tour didn't get much farther than that.

In the midst of all the torn out paneling and stripped cabling, somehow the right sequence of events came together. There was a bright flash of blue light, flickering like a nova through a swimming pool. The scientists' gasps of awe were cut off by the groaning impact of an energy burst hitting the glass barrier. The glass cracked into spiders' webs, the ominous sound akin to too much weight stepping onto too-thin ice. The team of scientists reacted quickly, trying to find a way to shut their experiment down while simultaneously trying to find out what made it work today of all days in the first place.

Events unfolded quickly. Suddenly giant tentacles were pushing on the broken glass. One and people started screaming. Two and they began running for the weapons lockers. Three and the glass wall melted and fell apart. Many of the scientists were armed with tasers and were haphazardly firing in its general direction. Alarm bells were sounding and lights were flashing—the MPs had initiated a lockdown. They were trapped!

Victor watched in horror as tentacles slashed through human bodies like butter. Blood and slime sprayed from floor to ceiling as tentacles flicked across the room in random lashings, trying to take out the tasers. Victor spotted his father at a distant computer console, most likely trying to find a way to send the creature back through the portal—or stop other creatures from breaking through.

He was so intent on locating his parents that he stopped paying attention to the creature. Then suddenly he heard a woman scream. It was his mother—_when did _she_ get here?_ Time seemed to slow as Elinore placed herself between the creature and her son. The tentacle flew out and struck another taser-wielding scientist. However, Elinore's movements attracted its attention. A stream of acid ejected from an indistinguishable mouth and burned its way through his mother as though she weren't even there. Victor remembers an agonizing cry, and then all was nothingness.

"And when I woke up," Victor finished, "I was what you see today."

"… Whoa…"

"Of course, I had to learn to walk, and eat, and well, _everything_, all over again from scratch. That took months. And then, well, there _is_ a difference between being functional, and being _proficient_. It took a lot longer to get used to the concept that I was some reject from an old-school sci-fi movie."

"And your mom died?" Garfield asked in a quiet voice.

Victor nodded sadly. "There wasn't enough of her left to turn Terminator."

Gar hung his head. "My parents died in a boating accident when I was six," he said. "I saw it happen." Then he got up to throw his trash away in a deliberate manor that said 'we're done here.' Victor followed suit.

"That must have been rough," Victor offered sympathetically as the two began the walk back to campus.

"It was," Gar admitted painfully. "Especially since I was too far away to save them."

"You were six," Victor interjected. "What could you have done?"

"I was fishing, on the shore. My dad had just taught me. Something caught in the boat's motor. I'm not entirely sure how. They knew it was coming, though. Mom screamed. Then the boat exploded. They were in the middle of the river—there was nowhere to go. They knew it was coming, and couldn't stop it. They died in the explosion."

"And you had to watch all that from shore? At six years old?"

"When I heard mom scream… I tried to reach them. I wasn't fast enough. I only got close enough to be slightly singed by the explosion."

Victor's eyes went wide. "Wait, you were _swimming?_"

Gar flashed a bitter grin and ducked into an alleyway. "No…"

Victor watched in amazement as his favorite effect in television history played out before his eyes. Garfield Logan transformed from petit green human into a beautiful green pelican. Pelican-Gar fluttered a bit and then changed back into a human.

"I was flying."

"… I could have sworn that was just green-screen… Er, what with you being green n'all."

Gar chuckled as he left the ally. "Nope. It was all me, dude." He sighed, and tried to come up with the best way to tell the story.

"My parents were scientists, too. Genetics research. They took me with them to the Congo. I was three when I got sick; this disease that supposedly only animals can get. My parents found a way to cure me through anti-toxins in animal DNA. It worked, but I got to be green for the rest of my life. Then when I was five, I discovered I could change into animals and stuff, so that kinda made the whole 'being green' thing better."

Victor laughed. "Yeah, I bet.

Victor and Garfield laughed, joked, and traded stories about the ins and outs of being 'different' all the way back to campus. The banter turned into an invite for Victor to head up to Gar's dorm room to play videogames. They had made it to the elevator in time to see Dick emerge, his backpack draped over one shoulder.

"Hey Dick!" Gar greeted cheerfully with a wave. "Dude, did Mr. Wayne find you? We ran into him earlier…"

Something indistinct and barely noticeable flashed in Dick's eyes before melting back into serenity. "Yeah he did," he answered. "He was in town for a Wayne Tech meeting and wanted to grab lunch."

"That's cool, dude. Oh! This is Victor Stone. He's in both my science classes. He's heading up to my room so he can get slaughtered in Mega Deathmatch III."

"Pffft! In your dreams, dawg."

"Vic, this is my buddy Dick Grayson."

"_The_ Dick Grayson?" Victor asked in mock-surprise, recalling his earlier conversation with Garfield, who promptly slugged him in the arm—only to quickly shake his hand in pain as Victor laughed.

"The one and only," Gar said through a grimace.

Dick looked on in amusement, reminding himself to ask Gar about it later.

Victor casually extended his hand, and Dick completed the handshake without fear. This welcomed surprise helped Victor's smile grow more genuine.

"Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise. Unfortunately, I have to run. Macro Economics at two-thirty."

"Heh, have fun," Gar teased. "But come! GameStation awaits! I mush thrash you into unrecognizable pieces!"

"HA! Not if I squash you into an ooey-gooey pancake first!" And the two disappeared into the elevator.

Dick shook his head and continued on his way to class. The name 'Victor Stone' was familiar to him, but he couldn't place from where. He mused on how this campus was turning into _X-Men: Evolution—The College Years_, as he promised himself a date with the Bat-computer tonight.

* * *

"—But the graphics of Speed Demonz mops the floor with Crash Course any day of the week!"

"Who cares about graphics! The courses in Crash are _soooo_ much better! I mean—" The elevator doors swung open and conversation halted as they found themselves face to face with—

"Oh, hi Raven!"

The goth girl didn't quite frown, but the sentiment was there. "Garfield."

"Uh… This is my friend Vic Stone."

Victor held out a hand with what he thought was an unassuming grin.

"Charmed," she said to no one as she walked past them into the elevator. She turned around and pushed the button for the ground floor. "I'm going to the library," she added as the doors slid closed.

Garfield and Victor stood staring dumbly at the doors for a moment.

"Uh… Is she always this pleasant?"

Garfield stared after her for a moment, a weird expression on his face, "No, dude. Compared to the first words she ever said to me that was down right cordial."

* * *

Song credits: Harry Chapin-_Cats in the Cradle_; Cats in the Cradle

AN- Everything revealed about Cyborg is comic canon. His father was able to save his life using the cybernetic limb experiments he was working on. Victor, upon seeing what had been done to him, wished that his father had just let him die. They were on the outs for a long time, until Victor became Cyborg and started saving the world. Only then did he come to terms with what he was, and was able to patch things up with his dad. It was then that his dad decided to front the money to build Titans Tower, as sort of a thank-you to his son's friends for enabling Victor to find his self-worth. Obviously the Titans, when they first began, didn't have the tower, since Cyborg wasn't even an original Titan.


	7. The terrible twos

"Hey dude, ready for class?"

Dick opened his door to be greeted by Garfield Logan.

"As much as anyone is ready for an eight o'clock class Monday morning," Dick grumbled. He had stayed up much later than intended and was paying for it now.

"Dude, I have eight o'clocks every day. Quit complaining."

Dick grunted, shouldered his bag, and promised himself a short nap after class. He heard a door open behind him.

"Good morning, Raven!"

"Garfield," Raven droned in greeting. "Dick."

Dick grunted in her general direction with a vague wave. "Jeez, dude, you're not your normal, cheerful self this morning. You okay?"

"Is cheerful 'normal' for Dick?" Raven asked Garfield.

"Well, he isn't usually as sour as you are in the morning."

Raven scowled.

"Let's just…" Dick stepped between them. "Go to class." He then walked ahead of them, and they fell in step behind him.

"Seriously dude, was there some party last night you didn't tell me about?"

"Party? Not really, just a few guys, martinis, and the girls' volleyball team."

Garfield stopped in his tracks, his jaw hanging wide open. Dick smirked and didn't miss a stride. Raven had to suppress a chuckle.

"DUUUUUDE! No fair!"

"He was kidding," Raven informed him monotonously.

"I know," Garfield whined. "But that's a cruel, cruel joke, man."

"I thought you went to a party last night, anyway?" Dick said when he was done laughing.

"What? No dude, just me and Vic playing Magic and videogames and stuff. Which _you_ were supposed to be joining us for, dude."

Dick groaned again. "Sorry, Gar. Something came up." And Dick was sorry. He would much rather play videogames in Victor Stone's apartment than study old case files and microfiche until passing out at his desk.

"What could have possibly been better than GameStation?"

"Studying," Dick answered with finality.

"Studying? For what?"

Dick didn't answer. Raven gave him a sideways glance.

"Dude? …Wait, you don't think we're gonna get a pop quiz, do you? … No way, man. He wouldn't do that to us on the second day of class!"

"Are you forgetting what he did on the _first_ day of class?" Raven asked pointedly.

Garfield groaned loudly. "No way!" He protested half-heartedly. "That's—that's not—that's just mean, dude. _No one_ gives a pop quiz on the second day of class!"

The three of them made their way to class and found once again that they had beaten the professor there. They weren't the first students to arrive, however. The class was already mostly full, and of those who were already there, many appeared to be snacking on something. Dick's eyes drifted to the nice china plate sitting on a desk in the front row with a half-dozen chocolate chip cookies left of what was probably a rather large batch. He resisted the urge to laugh out loud. Instead he shook his head with a smirk and took his seat.

"DUUUUDE! Cookies!" Garfield grabbed one in each hand.

"Are you sure you can just take some?" Raven asked him as she found her seat in the corner.

"They were just left here," one student piped up. "No note or nothing."

"And there's no classes before this so no one's coming back for them," said another, happily munching away.

"They must have been left here on Friday," Garfield concluded.

"They're still good," the first student assured him.

Garfield grinned and shoved the first one into his mouth. Dick pulled his textbook and notebook out of his bag and flipped to a clean page. He silently decided to bring a bag of popcorn to the next class.

Garfield offered his second cookie to Raven.

"No thanks," she said emotionlessly. "You go right ahead."

Garfield shrugged and tossed back the cookie as he found a seat.

Raven's eyes were on Dick the entire time, and how he wasn't even bothering to pay attention…

"Good morning class!" Dr. Cabrini strode into the classroom with purpose. He put his coffee down on the teacher's desk and opened his briefcase. "I have your assignments from last week to hand back to you." He dropped a stack of papers in the lap of a student sitting in the front row. When she looked up quizzically he gestured impatiently, and she jumped to her feet and began passing back the papers. Cabrini stood leaning against his desk and silently surveying the class. He took a slurping sip of coffee and watched them read the comments he'd made.

"I was impressed with some of you and less than impressed with others," the professor said as the girl sat down again. "I think you'll find, if you ask your neighbors, that those of you who read the chapter are the ones who did better on this assignment. Not to worry, though. Since it was our first assignment, and none of you were expecting to have to have the first chapter read before class—" a pointed glance to Dick, who remained impassive— "I will allow you to redo the assignment to try for a higher grade. Slip it in my mailbox by the end of the week and I'll reconsider it."

Dick sat back in his chair and resigned himself to wait for the inevitable. He didn't get his paper back with the rest of the class.

"I hope you all enjoyed last week's exorcise. It doesn't look as though too many of you were frightened away, never to return, simply because an unorthodox professor happened to get the drop on you." A quick glance around the room. Everyone seemed to be listening attentively. He glanced at his watch. Dick forced himself to hide a cringe.

"Well, as you all should have gathered by now, the emphasis of this class is on personality: where we get it, what we do with it, how it's affected and how it affects the world around us and the people we relate to. By now you should have read the first two chapters of the text book, and I hope you're prepared because today we get to fit two chapters worth of notes into one class period."

A few stifled groans. The professor looked at his watch again.

"Notebooks and pens, ladies and gentlemen!" Those who weren't already prepared made themselves so. "Now, if I had actually thought way back when as I was writing this text book that I'd ever be asked to _teach_ from it, I might have been a bit nicer with how I laid it out. You'll all recall that the first chapter was essentially a brief overview of the concept of personality and the second chapter dealt with how personalities are formed. Well, it made sense to outline it that way as I was discussing it with my publisher, but it doesn't really make sense to teach it that way. Those of you who've heard your parents use the old warning against putting the cart before the horse might not have heard them say that it's to protect the poor people following behind who have to avoid stepping in shit—oh, you're all old enough to see R-rated movies right? I can say 'shit' if I want to?"

A few nods, mostly blinks of confusion.

"Good. Now, as I was saying, I'll be giving notes on chapter two first. We'll be examining how human beings develop personality, discussing genetic predisposition versus environmental conditioning, and looking at how specific archetypes of our personality affect our day to day behavior and daily interactions."

Just then a girl in the second row timidly raised her hand. The professor couldn't help but smile as he called on her.

"Uh, may I go to the bathroom?"

"But of course, Miss Rich."

The girl thanked him before leaving the room rather quickly.

"Oh, and anyone else who ate a cookie before class this morning had better go to the bathroom now, so that my class won't be interrupted every two seconds by people asking to be excused."

There was a few seconds' delay and then a few students got up and left the classroom. The professor waited patiently. A few more left. Some shifted uncomfortably in their seats while others looked confused. Dick decided not to draw extra attention to himself and so restrained the laugh.

"I won't be allowing anyone else to leave under _any _circumstances, so those of you who are left are either innocent of cookie-snatching or have bowels of steel."

A panicked yip from Garfield Logan as he led the pack of remaining students from the classroom rather quickly. Less than a quarter of the class remained.

The professor walked back to his briefcase and pulled out another stack of papers. He handed them out to the students who remained personally and left the remaining stack sitting on his desk. Dick did chuckle this time as he saw a complete outline of chapters one and two sitting in his hands.

"I figured this would make life easier all around," he said as he returned to his desk for a generous sip of coffee.

"What was in those cookies?" One student asked in a mixture of awe and disgust.

"Chocolate flavored laxatives instead of chips?" Dick offered. He didn't bother to mention the half-dozen other ways it was possible to lace a cookie.

"Brilliant deduction, Detective Grayson," the professor quipped as he pulled something else from his briefcase and set it aside. Dick recognized it as his assignment from last week. "Now, can the six of you tell me why you didn't eat the cookies?" He pointed at one student.

"I'm allergic to chocolate," she answered plainly.

He pointed at another.

"I just don't like chocolate chip cookies," he answered.

"Wasn't hungry."

"I didn't want to steal someone's cookies."

Then he pointed to Raven.

"I have no interest in anything that is not mine," she droned.

Cabrini looked to Dick. "I see what you mean."

Raven's eyes flashed. Dick silently wished that he'd used the mass exodus as an excuse to ditch class.

"And you, Mr. Grayson?"

"This classroom is locked all weekend. The janitorial staff would have gotten rid of the cookies—or ate them, Friday night when they cleaned up. They could only have been put there this morning, which means _you_ had to put them there when you unlocked the door, so it was obviously a test to see who would eat them. After all, if you didn't want them to be eaten, you wouldn't have left them just lying around."

A few of the other students began clapping. Dick suddenly wanted the desk to swallow him whole.

"Bravo, Detective Grayson. But all you did was tell me how you deduced the game, not why you didn't eat a cookie."

"Well, given that you're not above videotaping your students without permission, I didn't want to know what you weren't above doing to chocolate chip cookies."

Cabrini grinned. "Touché." He took another sip of coffee, saluting Dick with his cup. "Now, if you'll inspect the notes I've handed out, you'll see how, after giving outlines of what you should know from chapters one and two, there's an explanation of why I put laxatives into chocolate chip cookies. You see, our personality influences our behavior. Keep these things in mind when you read chapter three, _Personality and Behavior_. Next class we will be discussing everything in depth. And since it's rather futile to lecture to the six of you, I'll see you all next week. Hopefully your friends will have recovered by then."

The professor retreated to the blackboard and left a message for those forced to leave class telling them to grab a copy of the notes and report to class next Monday. The six remaining students packed up their things.

"Oh, Mr. Grayson?" Dick was almost to the door. His shoulders slumped as he turned around. Raven stopped to wait for him outside the door.

"Yes, professor?"

"I'd like to see you downstairs in my office in two minutes."

"Yes, professor."

"What do you suppose he wants to see you about?" Raven asked him as they descended the stairs.

"My guess is it's about last week's assignment."

Raven's eyes narrowed. "You and I need to talk about that," she said, enforced calmness in her voice.

"Sure thing Raven, but get in line."

"Tonight," she said authoritatively.

Dick just nodded. "Great, well talk over disgusting café food."

Raven seemed to accept that. She turned to exit the building without another word. Dick continued on to the professor's office.

"Ah, you must be Richard Grayson. Dr. Cabrini said you'd be dropping by this morning. You can go right ahead and take a seat in his office. He'll be with you shortly."

Dick smiled and thanked the overly perky department secretary and wondered if Cabrini had conducted any caffeine experiments recently. He entered Dr. Cabrini's office tentatively, half-expecting the door, carpeting, light switch, what-have-you, to be booby-trapped. Finding no such obstacles, Dick fully entered the office. His trained eyes surveyed his surroundings, taking note of the haphazardly organized executive's desk and wall-to-wall bookshelves behind it. He made a note to have a closer look at those books for his own reading pleasure sometime later.

Dick noticed the wall decorations next. Numerous diplomas were hung in chronological order against the near wall: a bachelor's, masters, and doctorate in psychology, an additional masters in behavioral psychology, and post-graduate certificates in the study of criminal behaviors and psychological disorders.

Next to the accolades were a few framed photographs: yearbook photos for both of his daughters, one from high school and one from college… the oldest went to Harvard. There was a photo of the entire psychology department taken a few Christmases ago at an office party, one of the professor shaking the hand of the former mayor of Gotham and smiling for the press…

The last photo that Dick noticed—and the one that captivated him the most, was one of Cabrini, Captain James Gordon (judging by the dress uniform), and district attorney Harvey Dent, standing in front of the Gotham District Court clinking champagne glasses.

"What a tragedy."

Dick nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned to see the Cabrini standing there, whom he hadn't heard enter.

"Professor?"

"What happened to Harvey, I mean. You're from Gotham, I assume you know all about Harvey Dent."

"I know just about as much as everyone else in Gotham," Dick replied casually.

"Really? I thought Bruce would have told you more."

Dick bit the inside of his lip and chose his words carefully. "I became Bruce Wayne's ward not long after Dent's accident. It wasn't a story you tell a frightened and traumatized child."

"No, I suppose it isn't."

Just then there was a knock on the door. "Am I interrupting something important?"

"Dr. Beach?"

"No, no, Frank. Come on in. Richard, why don't you sit down?"

Dick saw his advisor stroll into the office. Dr. Cabrini moved to sit at his desk and Dr. Beach pull a chair over to sit beside him. Dick sat on the loveseat against the far wall with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"You know, you're causing quite a stir here on campus," Cabrini said, his voice neutral.

That sinking feeling sunk much lower. "Uh… Sorry?"

"What do you say, Xavier, about a kid who automatically assumes he's in trouble?"

"Well Frank, I'd say he has a guilty conscience. Do you have a guilty conscience, Richard?"

Dick looked at the two of them and squelched the half-dozen Robin-esque responses that came to mind. "If I'm not in trouble then why am I here?" he asked as innocently as he could manage.

"You are sitting in a meeting with your psychology professor and your academic advisor, but not for any disciplinary or intervening action," said Cabrini. "Why do _you_ think you're here?"

Dick resisted the urge to squirm. "You want to talk about last week's assignment," he concluded. Both professors noted how sure he sounded.

"I'll have you know that your 'assignment' has been the talk of the psych department," Beach added. "Old Cabrini here has finally run out of the appropriate people to impress with it."

Dick looked from his advisor to his psych professor with a bemused air of curiosity.

"Why are you taking my class, young man?" Cabrini asked him seriously.

"It's required for my major, sir," Dick answered as respectably as possible. After all, Cabrini already knew that.

"Don't patronize me, sonny. I'm one of four professors teaching intro to psych, yet you scheduled yourself into my class, even though it meant you had to miss out on the math class Beach here wanted you to take because you could take economics instead. I want to know why you're in my class, Richard, and please tell me there's more to it than showing off in front of your fellow students."

Dick sighed inaudibly as he formulated his response. "Wayne Manor has an extensive library, and Mr. Wayne didn't care what I read so long as I was reading. I've read all your books, Dr. Cabrini, some of them twice. And I figured, who better to learn from than the guy who wrote the book."

Dr. Beach laughed outright.

"You know, I pride myself on being a hardass," Cabrini continued. "Psychology is not an easy field to go into, and you need twenty-seven letters following your name before you can even earn a living at it. I do my best to scare away those lacking the proper aptitude to survive, and it usually works. Freshmen are either intimidated by me or think I'm an asshole."

"Well you are, but that's beside the point."

Cabrini looked daggers at Beach. "You're supposed to be helping!"

Beach raised his hands in mock defeat. Then, to Dick: "What my good friend is trying to say is that you've really baffled him. We've gone over your profile assignment with a fine-toothed comb, and we're mightily impressed by it. Cabrini has run out of the appropriate people to impress with it. And he's already told me about your escapades in this morning's class. We've spoken to your other professors, and they're all saying pretty much the same things. I've had similar conversations with Dr. Long as I've had with Xavier here, and she's asked me the same questions. We all want to know why you're taking introductory level classes when you're obviously educated well above them."

Dick sighed audibly this time and ran his hand through his hair, stalling for time. Bruce—_and_ Alfred, were going to kill him.

"Growing up as the ward of Bruce Wayne meant that I spent more time around adults than I did around kids my own age," he began. "It never really occurred to me before going away to college that my education exceeded that of my peers because I didn't really socialize with them growing up. All my friends were older than me. And with that massive library… I read a lot."

"Never would have figured Bruce Wayne to be the book type," Cabrini commented thoughtfully. Dick bit back a smirk and noticed that Beach didn't try to hide his.

"You're not on some sort of trial here, kid," Beach said. "We don't think you're cheating or anything—we believe that you're as intelligent as you come off in class. We just want to know why you're bothering with the introductory level classes, and please tell us it isn't just for the banal amusement of showing off in front of your classmates."

Dick's jaw clenched briefly but soon the neutral expression returned. "I was forced to miss my senior year due to medical reasons," he explained to Cabrini. As his advisor, Beach would already know that. "If they didn't think I was smart enough to survive college without tackling the summer program first, they sure wouldn't let me try and test out of introductory level classes." Now Dick looked pointedly at Beach. "Besides, I'm just taking what you said I should."

"See what I've had to put up with?" Cabrini said to Beach, only slightly sarcastic.

"I do indeed."

Dick was fairly certain that he'd just been insulted.

"So," Beach looked back to Dick. "What are you doing Sunday, kid?"

Dick barely restrained his eyes from bugging out of his head as he filed away a few flippant responses. "Uh… sleeping?"

"Well if you're as bored with the intro classes as we think you are then stop by here at eight a.m. I'm going to proctor you through an intro to psych final. Then you get lunch and Cabrini will proctor you through the criminology final. Get a B better on either of those and we'll give you that as a grade for the class. You can move onto _Further Studies in Criminology_ with me, and to whatever else Cabrini thinks you can handle with him."

"Take your pick, kid. I'm willing to bet you know my schedule."

Dick blinked a few times in surprise, then opened his mouth with the intent of responding, only to shut it again for lack of something to say.

"We're department heads," Beach continued. "We can do this sort of thing. The dean has already given her okay. All you'll need to do is pass the tests well—"

"Which I _know_ you can do," Cabrini interrupted.

"And we'll take care of the rest. I've already spoken with Dr. Long, and she's excused you from class until the test so that you can prepare."

"So we'll see you Sunday then, because as much as I know you enjoy outthinking me during class, you'd have to be crazy not to take this chance."

"Nothing adverse will happen if you don't do well, so you have nothing to lose."

"Sunday morning?" Dick asked at last.

"Our exams take hours," Cabrini said casually. "The weekend would be the best time to do it. Frank and I are taking time out of our busy lives to arrange to be here for you, so don't complain."

Dick graciously forced a smile to his face. "Sunday works for me."

"Good," said Beach. "See you at eight."

"And then I'll see you at two," Cabrini added. "Now, run along and call home, or tell all your friends, but make sure that the next time I see you you're prepared to take one of Beach's finals. They aren't easy, lots of writing."

"That's his way of telling you to get out of his office, kid."

Dick stood hastily, nodding. "Yes, Dr. Beach… Dr. Cabrini. Thank you." And he was gone before they had the chance to change their minds.

"Do you think he'll pull it off?" Beach asked.

Cabrini shrugged. "Dunno, but it'll be fun to watch him try."

* * *

Dick made his way up to his dorm room after class ended for the day. It was still a bit early to grab Raven and head to the café, and after the day he's had he really wasn't in the mood to be lectured by her based solely on a throwaway comment by the professor. Yet still, he wanted to clear the air between them, and he said he would, so he walked across the hall and knocked on her door. After a moment she opened it, just wide enough to stick her head through.

"Change of plans. Instead of the café it's going to be ordering pizza from my room, and I'll love you forever if you've read the psych book."

Raven blinked several times. "That must have been an interesting meeting…"

"I'll tell you about it over pizza, and you can tell me whatever it is you need to tell me while we wait."

Raven blinked a few more times. "Let me get my shoes…"

* * *

Dick and Raven sat on the futon, a mostly eaten box of pizza between them. Dick had explained to Raven how he had deduced the profiling assignment and thought to get a head start on the probable work by profiling the class, which is how he came to have profiled her _before_ the actual assignment was given. Raven accepted Dick's explanation and believed him when he told her that Dr. Cabrini didn't give the assignment back to him. Of course she demanded—er, _requested _that he tell her everything he said about her, but when Dick told her, Raven found that she couldn't argue with his assessments of her. _That_ had her quietly fuming for a while, but only because she couldn't fault him for stating the truth. In fact, Raven found that she really had _nothing_ to fault him for, and as soon as she realized it the evening progressed in a much smoother fashion.

With that little hiccup cleared, Dick told Raven about his meeting with Dr. Cabrini. He told her about how Cabrini brought his advisor in on it, and how the two of them conspired to allow him to try and test out of his intro level classes. Raven was… impressed… with this revelation. She knew Dick was smart, and really he _did_ deserve this chance. She was… proud… of him for getting the opportunity to shine and… respected… how brilliant he was. Since Raven doesn't _do_ jealousy, everything was fine. She even volunteered to help him study for the psych final, since she has already read the book.

Raven and Dick mapped out a plan for how he would cram for two finals by Sunday. Dick was beginning to think that he could pull it off. He'd have no social life until Monday, but what's a social life compared to finishing two college courses in three weeks? On Monday Dick will celebrate; then when he learns that he passed with flying colors, he'll look into the two classes he'll be taking to replace the completed ones. Then, he'll be cramming like mad to make up three weeks worth of work in those two _advanced_ classes.

On second thought, Dick had serious doubts that he could pull it off. In fact, taking on the entire League of Assassins single handedly was looking like it had better odds than his surviving this semester alive.

Of course, Dick couldn't bemoan his future for the entire night. He had homework for his three _other_ classes to do.

"I should go…" Raven stood and stretched. Dick had been so engrossed in his economics book that he didn't even notice when she finished her novel.

"Hmm?" He looked up, surprised.

"I should go," Raven reiterated. "The news will be on in a few minutes."

Dick looked quickly at his clock and then groaned exaggeratedly. His sociology homework involved watching the news… something about identifying target demographics…

"I didn't realize it was so late…"

Raven half-smirked. "I'd rather not read with the television distracting me, and since it's your homework…"

"Yeah, yeah," Dick stood as well. He grabbed the pizza box and carried it over to his small table. "Thanks for your help," he called to her.

"No problem," Raven droned as she exited his room.

Dick sighed and put the last few pizza slices on a plate. These he haphazardly covered with plastic wrap and put in the fridge… lunch for tomorrow. That took him until exactly ten p.m., when the news was on. Dick sat back down on the futon and grabbed the clicker. He found the channel just as co-anchors finished their opening banter.

The late-breaking news was fairly standard, the national news held nothing exciting, and the sports and weather were informative but forgettable. All in all, Dick thought it to be a pretty average news day.

Then the cultural segment aired.

_This is Faith Monroe reporting live from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where the exhibit on ancient Egypt is slated to premiere on Friday. The exhibit has been touring the globe for the past four months, but this is its first trip here to the U.S. It's making its American debut here at the Met before heading down to the Smithsonian for an extended stay. _

_The two beautifully sculpted sarcophagi containing the mummified remains of the twin sons of Pharaoh Amanotep the Second form the centerpiece of the exhibit. You can see the twin sarcophagi on the Dias behind me. As you can see, the Dias itself is a work of art, with a detailed mosaic in semi-precious stones set in bronze in a depiction of the moon as it moves into Gemini._

_The Egyptian exhibit, a fine example of later period Egyptian religious iconography and art, is expected to draw record crowds here at the Met, and the museum staff couldn't be more excited. Let's take you now to Peter Ng inside the museum…_

Dick had already abandoned the television in favor of his laptop. He was already logged into the Bat computer by the time Peter Ng began interviewing the exhibit's director. By the time the news was over, Dick had closed the laptop and had his head in his hands.

The reason he wasn't thrilled with the concept of an exam on Sunday morning wasn't because it was a Sunday morning. It was because he was planning on being in Gotham on Saturday night. Saturday was the second anniversary of the last time Harvey Dent—aka Two-Face—went toe to toe with the Dynamic Duo. Or more specifically, it was the second anniversary of the night Batman had to rush a bleeding and unconscious Robin to Leslie's clinic. He had been fighting more goons than he could handle, and the downhill spiral started with a separated shoulder and ended with a forty stitches and a concussion, but at least he distracted Harvey enough for Batman to take him out and leave him tied up for the GCPD.

Harvey escaped from Arkham two weeks ago, and hasn't been heard from since. Dick just _knew_ that the psychopath was planning something special for Saturday, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what, even after multiple all-nighters spent researching. However, Dick knew that he'd be in Gotham for Saturday, come hell, high water, or angry obsessive vigilantes. It was personal. Two-Face was _his!_

Now it looks like Robin doesn't have to go to Gotham after all. Two-Face will be in New York for the second anniversary of the last time Batman busted him because of the interference of the Boy Wonder. The second anniversary is also the second night of the Egyptian exhibit at the museum, where twin mummies on a Gemini Dais will be displayed until Dent tries to steal them.

When he does, Robin will be there to stop him.

Dick groaned loudly and ran his hands through his hair. Two-Face must know he's here—every tabloid had captured images of Robin's swan dive into traffic last week, so there goes his element of surprise. Dick has five days to figure out Two-Face's plan and engineer a way to stop it, all without giving any _more_ clues of Robin's whereabouts.

Dick would bet his final two cents that Two-Face is eagerly anticipating Robin's attempt to foil his plans. Robin _would_ foil them, Dick swore. Robin would learn the plan, foil the plan, take out the bad guy, and prove once and for all to himself and to Batman that he has what it takes to be a hero.

And all of this in between studying for two finals that he'll have to take the morning after.

"If I fail my tests, Harvey, you're gonna wish you were dead…

…

…

"If I fail my tests, my former FBI professors, for criminology and psychological profiling, are going to be able to guess what I do in my free time...

…

…

"Bruce is going to _KILL_ me… again."


	8. Tuesday into Wednesday

**Tuesday evening**

Robin stood in the shadows on the outskirts of the faculty parking lot of Hudson University. This was his first time out in the Robin suit for purposes other than to annoy the Batman, and he had to admit, it felt great! Of course, his first adventure solo was to try to track down and stop Two-Face from robbing the Metropolitan Museum, but even that fact couldn't totally banish his good mood. He was flying again!

Robin stood in the shadows, effectively on stakeout. It was early evening, barely an hour after sunset yet still dark enough to provide effective cover for the teenaged vigilante. He was waiting patiently, cape pulled in close around him so that only the black outside of it was showing, effectively concealing the red Robin suit and the yellow underside of the cape. In this fashion Robin blended into the shadows of the copse of trees that bordered the far end of the parking lot. Only professors that arrive late in the day are relegated this far out.

The owner of one silver Escalade was such a professor.

Analytically Robin knew that it was dangerous to try and contact someone so close to Dick Grayson, especially someone with Cabrini's history and skills. However, if his hunch was right, then his psychology professor was at least former if not current FBI, and Robin knew that if he were to have any chance at establishing himself in this city then he would need an ally, someone who knew how this particular city ticked. In Gotham there was Gordon, but this is a long way from Gotham. He didn't know anyone here, but it was a good chance that Cabrini did, or could at least point him in the right direction.

Speak of the devil…

Dr. Xavier Cabrini entered the parking lot, heading for his SUV. Robin watched as Cabrini disarmed the car alarm and unlocked the doors. When he opened the rear driver's side door to stow away his briefcase Robin made his presence known.

"Dr. Xavier Cabrini?"

The professor jumped slightly, startled. "Er…yes?" His voice was inquisitive as he scanned the parking lot for the speaker.

Robin stepped forward a pace and dropped the cape off of his shoulders, flashing the yellow underside as well as revealing the red of the suit, including the monogram 'R.' He was still in the shadows enough to not be as worried about Cabrini figuring out who exactly was talking to him, but he had also stepped forward enough for the purposes of conversation.

"I've been told that if one is looking for contacts within the city, that you'd be a good person to talk to."

"What type of contacts would a Gotham vigilante be looking for?" Cabrini asked candidly. While he's never actually met Robin, he _has_ had the pleasure of enduring Batman's company during his profiling expeditions to Arkham.

"The unofficial official kind. This isn't Gotham, and I'm rather new in town. I have no allies here, if you know what I mean."

"You're looking for a local James Gordon."

Robin smirked. "Something like that. Are you willing to help me find such a contact, Xavier?"

"Surprise me again tomorrow night. I'll see what I can do."

A car alarm suddenly sounded in the distance. Cabrini reflexively looked over. When he looked back, Robin had vanished.

The professor sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. He really was getting too old for this. Since there was nothing else for it, he climbed into his SUV and started the engine, but before he even fastened his seatbelt, he pulled his cell phone off of his belt and flipped it open. He dialed a well-remembered number and—

"Hi, Jim? … Yeah… Listen, are you free around lunchtime tomorrow? … You and I need to have a chat about one of your associates…"

* * *

**Wednesday, lunchtime  
Gotham**

Barbara Gordon was sitting in her room at the computer doing homework when the doorbell rang.

"Daddy? You want me to get that?"

"No thanks, Barbara. I got it." James Gordon greeted his longtime friend Xavier Cabrini at the door. "Well, well, well. If it isn't Professor X."

"Stuff it, Banshee," Cabrini muttered as Gordon held the door open for him.

"So what brings you to Gotham, Xavier? And will it require coffee, or something stronger?"

"Yes," Cabrini replied as he allowed Gordon to take his coat.

"Well head on into the kitchen and I'll see what I can do about that."

Cabrini led the way with Gordon following. He claimed a seat at the table while Gordon puttered around, turning on the coffee maker and grabbing two clean mugs from the dishwasher.

"You got a girlfriend, Jimmy?" Cabrini asked with mild amusement. "Your kitchen is far too clean for this to be a bachelor pad."

"I don't need a girlfriend," Gordon replied as he set about to making sandwiches. "I have a daughter who decided to save money and commute to college from home because she didn't want dear old dad living on his own without a keeper. Now turkey or roast beef?"

"Roast beef if you've got it."

"Wouldn't have offered if I didn't. Still two pats of mayo?"

"You remembered. I'm touched."

"How could I forget? You used to make a sandwich every day for lunch."

"And you always skipped lunch in favor of a big breakfast." Cabrini laughed then. "Boy, those were the days. Between your working security at Wrigley field and me bartending at that little dive across the street—"

"—We had barely enough money to pay rent on top of our tuition and keep us in enough beer to survive football season. I remember."

"Your hair was flaming red back then."

"Yeah, and yours wasn't thinning as much."

"You didn't need glasses."

"And you didn't have a gut." Then Gordon sighed. "When did we get old, X?"

"Oh some time after we both got married but before our careers panned out, I think."

Gordon then brought sandwiches and coffee over to the table, though before sitting down he walked to the edge of the kitchen and called out: "Barbara! I made coffee and sandwiches!"

A few seconds later and the vivacious redhead came bounding down the hallway.

"Thanks, daddy! Oh, hi Mr. Cabrini."

"Hello, Barbara," Cabrini greeted with a smile.

Barbara grabbed a sandwich and filled a mug with coffee, cream, and sugar. "What brings you to Gotham?" she asked. "Lunch?"

"Well, your father makes _excellent_ sandwiches…"

"I'm sure," she droned with a sarcastic grin. "Well, I have more coding to finish. My fingers haven't completely worn down to the knuckle yet."

Cabrini winced. "Jimmy, how could you let your daughter go to college to learn how to be a slave to technology?"

"Very funny," Barbara dismissed sarcastically.

"Actually," Gordon interjected, "I think the point is the technology learns how to become a slave to _her_."

Barbara flashed a winning grin before planting a kiss atop her father's head and taking her sandwich and coffee back down the hallway to her room. "Have fun, boys. I have work to do."

"That little girl gets prettier every year," Cabrini observed as soon as Barbara was out of earshot.

"That she does," Gordon agreed wistfully. "Now, you drove all the way out here on a school day to talk to me during my lunch hour, Xavier. Would you be terribly offended if I was to cut to the chase and ask you what the hell for?"

"Not terribly offended," Cabrini conceded. Then he glanced back down the hallway. "But I wasn't expecting Barbara to be here."

"If this conversation needs to happen in private, we can take it out back to the patio."

"I think that would be best, Jimmy."

Gordon nodded. "Grab the coffee. I'll get our coats."

A few minutes later James Gordon and Xavier Cabrini were sipping coffee on the patio in the back yard. Gordon sat himself atop the picnic table and Cabrini was leaning against the side of the house.

"Okay, X. What's on your mind?"

Never one to beat terribly around the bush, Cabrini answered plainly. "One of your masked, pajama-wearing friends paid me a visit last night."

Gordon's eyes widened. "Batman was in Gotham last night. I spoke to him myself, when he brought in an escaped Blackgate prisoner."

"Not the Bat," Cabrini corrected. "The bird."

"_Robin_ was in Long Island last night?"

Cabrini nodded. "In the university parking lot, looking specifically for me."

Gordon pursed his lips in thought. "Now that you mention it, I haven't seen him around lately. I didn't think anything of it because it's not unheard of for Robin to keep a lower profile than Batman, especially in front of law enforcement."

"Well he definitely wasn't low-profile last night."

"The only thing I can think of is that Batman has him out on some sort of recon assignment. I know he's had members of the Justice League do such things for him on occasion when it's been mutually beneficial."

"If you say so."

"What did he want with you?"

"That's the funny thing, Jimmy. He wanted names."

Gordon blinked. "Names?"

"Contacts," Cabrini clarified. "He wanted the names of potential allies in my neck of the woods. I'm thinking he's looking out to the City, too."

"You mean members of law enforcement that won't turn him in on the grounds that he's a masked vigilante?"

"Something like that. But I figured that if you had sent him, you would've warned me ahead of time."

"Of course," Gordon readily agreed. "But I wouldn't put it past Batman to send him out and not tell me."

"Well Jimmy, you know these do-gooders best. Robin's going to be bugging me again tonight for a name. Should I help him or should I tell him to go screw?"

Jim sighed and made a show of cleaning his glasses. "Xavier, I'll tell you straight out. I've seen that kid take out entire street gangs on his own and before his voice dropped. Batman trusted him enough to make him a partner, and now it looks like he's letting the kid grow up a little and do a few things on his own. I've learned—and not always the easy way, that usually it's safer to trust the Batman's opinion on things. If you know people in your circles that are willing to play ball, I'd advise you to give the kid a shot. Odds are, you'll most likely be thankful in the long run."

A long, tense pause. Finally Cabrini sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair.

"How did I know you were going to say that?"

Gordon just smiled tiredly.

"Well, thanks for the coffee, Jimmy. I should get out of here before rush hour."

"Any time, Xavier." The two shook hands. "I'll walk you to your car."

The two disappeared around the side of the house, heading for the driveway.

* * *

Barbara Gordon had her headphones on, sitting at her computer. As soon as she heard through the listening devices in the house and around the yard (installed per Batman's suggestion) that Cabrini's SUV had driven away she took the headphones off.

"Batman never mentioned anything about Robin being in Long Island," she mused to herself. "Actually, I could have sworn he said that Robin had decided to go to college." Barbara bit lightly on one stem of her reading glasses. "I wonder what the heck Short Pants is up to…"

* * *

**Wednesday evening  
Long Island**

Robin stood in the shadows of the copse of trees at the far end of the faculty parking lot again. Dick Grayson knew that the good professor had an adjunct fill in for him in class today, and that he wasn't seen on campus until nearly five p.m. this evening. He wondered where the man had gone all day, and if it had anything to do with their encounter last night. However, Cabrini did tell him to give him time and to check back again tonight. The Escalade was parked in the back corner of the lot again, and hopefully Cabrini would be making an appearance on a similar timetable as last night.

Robin afforded himself an open smile when he saw Cabrini finally traversing the parking lot.

"Do you have something for me?" he asked as soon as the professor reached his SUV.

"You know, kid," said Cabrini, "it's no small thing what you asked. You asked me to ask one of my associates to put their ass on the line to help you, and by my doing so, that reflexively put my ass in jeopardy, too, for just _talking_ with you."

"You didn't seem to mind when you conferred with Batman on those profiles of Arkham inmates," Robin retorted simply.

"You know, I should probably ask you to reimburse me for the gas money it took to get out to Gotham and back. I took your request to Gordon. He said I should give you a shot, so if I were you I'd get him something really nice at Christmas time, kid."

"Does this mean you have information for me?" Robin asked candidly, subduing his reflex to cringe when Cabrini had mentioned Gordon. If Gordon knew that Robin was in Long Island, then there was a good chance that he would mention it to Batman, and if Batman heard that _Robin_ was in Long Island…

Harvey Dent was going to have a very, _very_ bad day.

Meanwhile Cabrini had pulled out his wallet. He fished for a business card and handed it to Robin.

"Special Agent Mark Hernandez. We went through the Academy together. He'll be waiting up for you in his office until nine tonight. Don't make contact by then, the deal's off and he'll arrest you the next time he sees you. He still might arrest you tonight, if you give him reason enough, but I vouched for you, because Gordon vouched for you. I think you know what that type of trust means, Robin," Cabrini finished seriously.

"Thank you, Cabrini," Robin said sincerely.

"Don't make me regret this," Cabrini added as he shoved his wallet into his back pocket. When he looked up again, Robin had vanished.

* * *

Robin made his way to public restrooms in Washington Park where he stashed his trench coat. There was no one in the restrooms, so Dick threw on the trench and removed his eye mask and ta-da! No one could tell that he was Robin.

Dick Grayson then went back to the resident student parking lot and unlocked the Red Bird. He drove the car until there was no one near him on the road; then he shimmied out of the trench coat, replaced the eye mask, and hit the stealth switch on the dashboard. The license plates flipped over and displayed the name 'Red Bird,' and the car's body moved and transformed until it became almost an armored race car with tinted windows. Brand new dials emerged on the dashboard and down by the gearshift so that the controls looked more like those of a stealth fighter jet than a sports car.

It was a twenty-minute drive to the Long Island Federal building. That put him with nearly an hour to spare before Cabrini's deadline. Robin parked the car in a nearby alley and armed the alarms. According to the business card, Special Agent Hernandez's office was on the second floor. The only question was how on earth would he get there? A masked vigilante doesn't just stroll into the lobby of the federal building, especially when it involves walking through the metal/plastic detectors wearing Kevlar and steel plated armor. That would go over _real_ well with the feds.

Robin looked at the business card again. He decided that the best course of action would be to call Hernandez from the payphone across the street. Fortunately he had a calling card in his utility belt.

Fortunately Hernandez answered his phone.

"Special agent Hernandez."

"I made it here on time. I still have an hour before nine."

There was a considerable pause.

"So you're Batman's junior partner, eh? Where are you?"

"At the payphone across the street. I can't exactly waltz into the building."

"No, I suppose not. We're five blocks from Kane's Pier. Wait for me there."

And the line went dead.

Robin couldn't help but smirk as he hung up the phone. Then, feeling rather confident that he wasn't going to be arrested on site because the feds didn't swarm in on him at the payphone, Robin decided to walk the five blocks to the pier.

The pier wasn't anything like the Gotham City Docks. There were no old tires, beer cans, or other detritus lining the shore and there were no bums or miscreants loitering nearby. The water didn't even smell of backed up sewage. Robin smiled. This nearly pristine waterscape beneath a refreshingly black sky… A vigilante could get used to this.

Robin hid in the shadows, but wasn't kept waiting long. Soon a tall figure in a dark trench coat came into view. As the figure got closer, Robin saw that he had thick, curly black hair, a bushy mustache, and glasses. He looked rather like a Hispanic James Gordon, only a bit younger and a tad more rotund. When he was close enough, Robin emerged from the shadows of the pier.

"Special Agent Hernandez," he greeted in the Robin voice with a slight head nod for acknowledgement.

"Don't try anything funny, kid. I'm a fast draw and a championship marksman."

Robin smirked. "Nice to meet you, too."

"Cabrini said that you were looking for an ally in law enforcement. Why?"

"I'm a vigilante, not a supercomputer. My information is only as reliable as the contact who gave it to me. I need reliable contacts if I'm going to have a shot at stopping crime."

"And you think the Bureau is reliable?" Was that incredulousness in his voice?

"I didn't ask specifically for FBI. Yours was just the lucky name printed on the business card Dr. Cabrini gave to me."

"Why go to Cabrini?"

"Because he's familiar with Gotham. His background made him the logical choice for me to approach with this dilemma, and since he leads a rather public life down here he was easy to find."

Hernandez nodded, considering this. "I suppose that the fact that the FBI keeps tabs on _all_ local law enforcement agencies, and so is thus capable of providing information over a much larger network than say, the NYPD, never entered your mind."

Robin spared a smirk. "That must have been what Cabrini thought. Like I said, I didn't ask specifically for FBI."

"So you said."

A tense pause hung between them. Finally Hernandez seemed to come to a decision.

"Okay, kid. You're obviously in town for a reason. What is it?"

"I have reason to believe that Harvey Dent is going to try and rob the Metropolitan Museum on Saturday night. Specifically, the twin sarcophagi and the Gemini dais."

"Dent…?" Hernandez's eyes widened. "Two-Face?"

Robin nodded. Then Hernandez's eyes narrowed back down.

"What makes you so sure?"

"Dent's M.O always revolves around the number two. Saturday is the second anniversary of the last time he was captured. It's also the second day of the Egyptian exhibit where twin sarcophagi are the being displayed on a Gemini dais."

"But… Two-Face would have to be out of Arkham for that."

"He escaped over two weeks ago. Neither the GCPD nor Batman have been able to track him this time. He hasn't made any moves yet, and the Egyptian exhibit would certainly attract his attention."

"Yeah… Yeah I guess it would."

Robin's eyes narrowed in his mask. "Are you going to do something about it?"

"I can get on the horn to the NYPD and warn them. See if they can arrange for additional guards at the museum."

"Good. Keep me informed."

"And just how am I supposed to do that?"

"I'll contact you tomorrow."

"Fair enough."

Hernandez turned to go, but then it occurred to him that he didn't know _how_ Robin would contact him. When he turned back around to ask, Robin had already vanished.

* * *

**Wednesday, near midnight  
Gotham**

Batman stood on a rooftop, watching impassively as several gang members were loaded into the back of a GCPD prison van. He had heard on the police scanner a report of gunfire beneath the El-Train tracks on State Street and had sped over in the Bat-mobile. The gang bangers were shooting at the windows of passing trains, and Batman quickly and easily put a stop to it with the belated, freely offered, and generally unwanted help of Batgirl.

Now the two of them stood on a rooftop in silence, surveying the scene before them.

"You're welcome," Batgirl said passively as she watched the van pull away from the scene.

Once again Batman ignored the comment. It was becoming rather routine now, Batgirl showing up wherever Batman was and giving him the helping had that he was lacking without the presence of his regular partner. Batgirl, alias Barbara Gordon, has access to police scanners too after all, and more often than not she and Batman have been forced by circumstances to team up. Batman hasn't exactly been welcoming of her presence, but then, he hasn't outright dismissed her yet, either. He even used her talents freely in his recent adventures against such villains as Mad Hatter and Catwoman. In the thick of things, the Batman had even started treating her like her presence wasn't a hindrance, actually seeming to fight bad guys _with_ her as opposed to alongside her in the same general space.

Batgirl had of course been thrilled with this trend. Before, when it had been Batman and Robin, she was flying mostly on her own taking out purse snatchers and petty thugs under the grudgingly accepting eye of the Batman, who always seemed to show up in the nick of time and save her tail whenever she got in over her head. Not that she minded, of course. No, it was only chaffing to her ego when Batman would send _Robin_ in on those rescue missions.

Then again, fighting alongside the Boy Wonder could be a lot more fun than having Batman watch her back. Robin would at least _talk_ to her, make her feel like her efforts actually _meant something_, when he wasn't making her feel like a grossly incompetent amateur with delusions of grandeur.

Now, according to Batgirl, Robin has been MIA for _months—_the better half of a year, actually. She had wondered where Short Pants had run off to and why Batman was fighting solo these days, but the only explanation offered was that Robin had decided to go to college outside of Gotham and was hopefully living a normal life, 'which some _other_ college-aged vigilantes might try for a change.' Barbara had taken this in stride, of course. She was used to the never approved but not quite disapproved status she held in the Batman's opinion.

Barbara had been operating under the knowingly false assumption that they were partners now, though she filtered the delusion by adding the caveat that the position was only temporary, until Robin returned to Gotham. She figured that he couldn't stay out of it forever; he loved the game too much.

Then she heard her father talking about Robin being spotted on Long Island. That's a random, out-of-the-way place for the Boy Wonder to be. It doesn't even have a crime rate worthy of a vigilante's attention. Maybe if he'd been spotted in Blüdhaven or some place more sinister she would have believed it, but Long Island? What, have the little old ladies complained that someone's been making off with their bingo winnings? It didn't make sense.

It had occurred to her that perhaps Robin was in Long Island solely for Dr. Cabrini. She's known the professor all of her life and never really thought of 'Uncle Xavier' as a crime-fighting resource, but then he _was_ the foremost FBI profiler and has done considerable work with the inmates at Arkham. Perhaps Robin was just looking for information? The conversation did mention something about the names of reliable contacts. Perhaps Robin is trying to set up a network down by the City? That would make much more sense to her.

Whatever the reason, it didn't change the fact that at least three tabloids had fuzzy, out of focus pictures of the Boy Wonder swinging through the streets of New York. Robin was doing more than just college work, it seems. The real question is, is he off on some long-distance or undercover assignment for Batman, or was he _really_ supposed to be in college and is now for whatever reason flying solo?

Well, there's one good way to answer that.

"What's Robin doing in New York?"

Batman scowled. This was _not_ a topic he wanted to discuss.

"Being stupid and getting himself photographed by the press."

Batgirl frowned. "That's not what I meant. I mean, _why_ is Short Pants in New York? Is that where he's going to school?"

"Robin's education is none of your business, Batgirl," Batman said dismissively.

"What? You think that if you admitted that he was in New York that I'd magically be able to deduce his secret identity amongst the other ten _million_ people? Though I'll choose to take your beliefs in my skills as a complement, Batman, I'm not some all-seeing Oracle or something. How the heck would I manage that?"

"This discussion ends here," Batman said in his most menacing voice. Then without further ado he shot off a grappling hook and swung off the rooftop into the night.

"Left in the lurch again," she groaned. She thought better of trying to follow him, though. It was getting late, and she had a test in the morning. "How the heck did Robin put up with him anyway? Maybe that's why he escaped to New York."

As Barbara Gordon made her way back to her father's house, she wondered exactly what the heck was up with the Dynamic Duo. While it gave her a nice, warm, glowly feeling to count herself as the Dark Knight's new squire, she had always wondered where Robin had truly disappeared to, and if his reasons were as simple as deciding to hang up the cape in favor of college and a normal life.

Somehow she doubted that it was ever really as simple as that. Now, as she looked back on her conversation with Batman… Barbara Gordon was far from stupid. It was fairly obvious that something had happened to instigate the change. Batman wouldn't have been nearly so frigid back on that rooftop if otherwise. The only question was what.

As Barbara stripped out of the Batgirl costume and stashed it in the bottom of the trunk in her closet, grateful that her father wasn't home yet and eager for a quick shower, she couldn't stop from dwelling on the puzzle at hand. Why was Robin talking to ex-FBI agents in Long Island? Why was he photographed in New York? Was he really in college now, or was something else going on? Did he have a falling out with Batman?

Well, if Batman refuses to answer these questions, there is another way. She could go to New York herself. If Robin's active in the city, he shouldn't be too hard to find for someone who knows what types of places the bird likes to roost in. She liked to think of Robin as a, well, _friend_ wasn't quite the word, but they worked well together when it was just the two of them, and he had saved her hide on more than one occasion, so she felt like she owed it to him. If he was in some kind of trouble in New York—as evidenced by perhaps a mad escape from criminals that left him no choice but to remain open to the paparazzi… Batman obviously wasn't going to pursue the issue. Perhaps then Batgirl should.

The other plus side, she realized, was that she would get the chance to visit her friend Dick Grayson at Hudson University. She promised that she would drive out to see him sometime, but as of yet she hasn't found the time. They had been emailing each other whenever they got the chance, but the last one was a while ago. Dick was a good friend, Barbara felt bad that she hadn't kept in better contact with him, but he left last summer, at which time she found herself going out more and more as Batgirl to cover Robin's absence…

As Barbara tried to get to sleep that night, she remembered that Hudson University was also where Uncle Xavier taught psychology, on Long Island.

She didn't get much sleep that night.

* * *

AN-We have Robin getting a point of contact in the FBI. Aside from how amusing it will be when Batman discovers that the Titans got federal backing _before_ the Justice League (which barely had UN approval), it nicely answers the question of why you so very rarely see a police presence when the Titans are taking out a baddie on the show. The cops won't show up if the feds tell them to back off. 

AN2-Just to clarify, Batman and Robin know Batgirl's secret identity but she doesn't (yet) know theirs.

As the daughter of Commissioner Gordon (actually niece then later adopted daughter, but that's nitpicking) she had a severe case of hero-worship for the Batman and so donned the cape and cowl to fight crime in his name. Batman wasn't exactly thrilled, but rather than try and forbid her from being Batgirl (even though he tried at first), he grudgingly allowed her to play the part, training her some and generally keeping an eye on her. After all, her father would _kill_ him if anything happened to his little girl.

Canon has Barbara anywhere between three and seven years older than Dick, and in this fic it's three. She had already established a life of her own before taking up the Dark Knight's crusade. She didn't fight crime every night, but rather when the need for the thrill arose and when her real life didn't interfere, or when she thought the Dynamic Duo really needed her help.


	9. Thursday

**Thursday afternoon**

Barbara Gordon pulled into the visitor's parking lot at Hudson University on Long Island. Dick Grayson went to school here, and Xavier Cabrini taught here. It was as good a place to start as any. She could see her 'uncle Xavier' and maybe get a line on how to get a hold of Dick. Then she could visit with him for a while before donning the Batgirl costume and going out to look for Robin.

She knew which building the psychology department was located in thanks to the online campus map she had printed out before leaving Gotham. Hopefully the building would have a directory so that she could easily find Cabrini's office.

This was her lucky day. 'Dr. Xavier Cabrini, department head, office number 204.'

Barbara grinned and took the stairs two at a time in her usual exuberant fashion. Once on the second floor she found the sub-directory posted next to the fire emergency map. Cabrini's office was the second on the left, and the door was open.

"Excuse me?"

The secretary looked up from the stack of psychological journals she was rifling though. "Can I help you?"

"Is Xav—ah, Dr. Cabrini busy right now?"

"He doesn't have any appointments right now, if that's what you mean," the secretary answered with a smile. "Just go ahead and knock on his door."

"Thanks." Barbara then did just that.

"What is it, Maryanne?" a familiar voice called out from inside the office.

Barbara opened the door and stuck her head in. "Guess again," she teased.

Cabrini looked up sharply at the sound of her voice, then his face broke into a grin. "Ah! You've brought lunch!"

Barbara laughed and shook her head, entering fully into the office. "Sorry, Uncle Xavier. It's just me by my lonesome here to see you."

Cabrini played up a disappointed expression for half a second, but couldn't hold it. "Even better," he remarked, shutting the power off on his computer monitor and swiveling his chair to better regard his unexpected visitor. "Though I was hoping that your father sent you here with a sandwich or too. Alice seems to think that I need to go on a diet and is only buying _light_ mayonnaise."

Barbara smirked and shook her head slightly. "Daddy doesn't know I'm here, actually. He went to work before I got up for class this morning. I left him a note though, and I plan to call him tonight so he doesn't worry too much."

"So you're going to be in town for a while then?" Cabrini asked. "What for?"

Barbara feigned a hurt expression. "What? You can randomly take off to visit old friends for lunch but _I_ can't?"

"My missing a day of school isn't as drastic a decision as you."

"Ha! After my test this morning I decided to treat myself to a day off. I don't have any classes until tomorrow night, and I wanted to give my fingers a rest before I wear the letters off my keyboard."

"Fair enough," Cabrini conceded with a smile. "So what brings you here? I highly doubt that you drove all this way just to let me buy you lunch. Looking to transfer, are we?"

"Hudson doesn't have as good a computer science department as Gotham U," Barbara informed him. "And besides, it's suicide to try and transfer somewhere for your senior year."

"You don't trust your father to live on his own, do you."

"Not on your life."

Cabrini chuckled. "So, can I take you to lunch? You can help save me from the horrors of a low-fat sandwich."

"Unfortunately not, Uncle Xavier," Barbara said with fair chagrin. "Actually, aside from a random visit to my favorite uncle, I came to Hudson to visit a friend of mine who goes here."

"Oh really? Who is it? Maybe I know her."

"I was rather hoping you would," Barbara said. "And it's a _him_. Richard Grayson. All I have is his email address so I have no idea how to find him. … Uncle Xavier?"

"You couldn't have picked a worse time to visit Mr. Grayson if you tried," Cabrini said seriously. "Frank and I have him _quite_ busy."

Barbara rolled her eyes. "Uh oh. What did daddy put you up to now?"

"Actually, your father had nothing to do with it. In fact, I think it's a rather amusing coincidence that the two of you are friends. Mr. Grayson is one of the most intelligent students I've ever encountered in all my years of professing psychology. Beach and I have conspired to allow him to take some of his finals early. Sunday, as a matter of fact."

Barbara took a few minutes to re-hinge her jaw. "Dick?"

Cabrini took silent note of her stunned reaction. "So really, Barbara you picked a miserable week to try and see your friend. He should have his nose jammed in a text book when he isn't in class."

"Wow… I never knew he had it in him."

Cabrini gave her a sly grin. "What's the matter, Barbara? Afraid to share the spotlight?"

Barbara shook her head. "I always figured he was smart—he never asked me for help with his homework. But he was always more interested in climbing trees and swinging from chandeliers than in schoolwork. Though, I never _could_ beat him at chess…"

"Sounds like you don't know your friend as well as you thought."

Barbara nodded absently. "You wouldn't happen to know where he'd go on study break, would you?"

Cabrini shrugged. "Don't look at me. I just work here. Many of the students head to the local pizza place though. That's probably your best bet."

Barbara recovered enough from her initial shock to smile her thanks. "Great! I'll start there. If I don't have any luck then can I redeem that lunch invite for an early dinner?"

"Sure you can," Cabrini said with a smile. "I'll be here until six-ish tonight. After that, well, you know where I live. Alice would love to see you."

"Thanks, Uncle Xavier." And Barbara left Cabrini's office, her mind still quietly reeling, as she went to hunt for Dick Grayson.

* * *

Raven, Garfield, and Victor were sitting in a corner booth at Omega pizza, stealthily avoiding cafeteria food. Garfield and Victor were talking excitedly about… something… and Raven had her nose in a book not really paying attention to them. Usually Dick was there to keep the conversation at least _bearable_. Yet tonight, like the past two nights, he was nowhere to be found. 

Originally, Raven had high hopes for this Victor Stone, whom Garfield had been dragging along to just about everything. His surface thoughts were scrambled—mostly coming across in a series of ones and zeros, accounted for by his cybernetic brain implants. Therefore it was quite easy to ignore everything he wasn't saying, and his emotions were generally stable, though sometimes she got glimpses of a unique paranoia during social interaction not unlike that of Garfield, but in Victor it was coupled with an underlying current of bitterness of which she was unable to pinpoint the cause. In general, his company was easier to tolerate then Garfield's, and when Raven chanced to engage in conversation with him _without_ Garfield's immediate input she also caught snippets of a great intellect inside that mostly cybernetic brain. All in all, the outlook was promising.

That was of course until he got into a heated debate with Garfield on the validity of the _Mortal Kombat_ movies. Her hopes irrevocably dashed, Raven stuck her nose in a book and hasn't emerged since.

"Yo! Raven, can you hear me?"

The vein throbbed in her forehead. Of course she could hear Garfield. She heard him the last five times he tried to talk to her. Unfortunately, he couldn't take the hint. Raven lowered her book slowly and gave him a questioning glare laced with daggers.

Gar simpered and laughed slightly. "Uh… I was just wondering if you've seen Dick lately."

Raven silently fumed. It was all _Dick's _fault that she was left to baby-sit Tweedle Dumb and Dumber by herself. "No." Her deadpan voice was colored in irritation.

"Dude, it's like, been three days! Where the heck could he be?"

Victor laughed. "Probably with his girlfriend."

"You _really_ think he's driving back to Gotham every night?"

Raven fumed again. "He doesn't _have_ a girlfriend in Gotham," she declared rather forcefully and pointedly at Garfield. "He has two finals to take this weekend. He's probably studying."

Victor laughed ruefully and shook his head. "Man, I wish they'd let _me_ take a few finals early. Then I could get the heck out of my intro courses and into some _real_ challenges."

Garfield's jaw dropped. "Dude, it's challenging enough just trying to keep up with the notes! I swear I'm gonna get carpal tunnel syndrome or something."

"Seriously though, all you've talked about is how this Grayson kid is gonna whoop my ass in Magic, but I ain't seen him since we ran into him the other day."

"Heh, neither have I, dude. If I didn't know better I'd swear he was avoiding us or something."

Raven nearly smirked. "Now why would he do that?" she droned. "Especially not the week before he has a couple of finals to take."

Victor shook his head, chuckling. "Damn, girl. Sarcastic much?"

Garfield laughed. "Dude, you have no idea."

Once again, Raven nearly smirked, and returned her nose to the book. The inane babble continued on, and she _tried_ to ignore them.

"You listening to me? Raven?"

She growled audibly and lowered the book again. "No, I'm not listening to you Garfield. I'm reading. Leave me alone."

"Oh." His enthusiasm fell slightly. "I was just wondering if you wanted to go with me to the museum tomorrow."

Raven couldn't help but arch both eyebrows in pure surprise.

"I have to go for class!" Gar defended quickly. "I was just wondering… well I had mentioned it to Dick, but I don't think he'll show, what with all that studying n'all. And Vic said he's in—"

"Sounds like fun."

"So I figured I should at least, ya know, extend the invitation?"

The surprise on Raven's face melted back into serenity. "I've already been," she stated flatly, returning her nose to the book.

"Yeah, but tomorrow that cool new exhibit opens on ancient Egypt. That's gotta be worth checking out."

"No thanks," she dismissed without even looking at them.

"Your loss," Victor said with an amused grin. "It makes our life easier anyway, since you probably wouldn't be interested in a GameStation marathon afterwards."

"How astute of you."

Garfield's face light up in a grin. "Oh yeah! Dude, I am _totally_ gonna pay you back for that travesty this afternoon."

"Heh, in your dreams, dawg."

"No, in your reality."

And their conversation continued, and Raven kept reading, tuning them out.

* * *

Barbara Gordon surveyed the crowd at the local pizza place—Omega's. Most of the tables were occupied by what appeared to be college students. Unfortunately, the one student she was looking for wasn't among them. 

Barbara signed and was about to turn to go back to campus when her attention was drawn to the far corner booth. Three… unusual… students were sitting there: a girl with an interesting dye job, a large, cybernetic student that she had to guess was Victor Stone—she had read all about the breakthrough technology that kept him alive in one of her biophysics classes. The third student, wearing a baseball cap and long coat still wasn't able to disguise his green skin. Barbara smirked; that had to be Garfield Logan, the child actor that Dick had mentioned was in his classes. If _anyone_ knew where to find Dick, then it was Logan.

Mustering her cutest smile, Barbara strode confidently to the table.

"—and I'm telling you, dawg. That's why _Episode II_ sucked a—"

"Excuse me?" Barbara interrupted Victor by speaking to Garfield. "Are you Gar Logan?"

Garfield heard a soft soprano over his left shoulder and instantly his day was brighter. He turned slowly in his seat to find the source of the voice, and his heart skipped a beat at the sight of the tall, slender redhead standing not a foot away from him.

"For you babe, I'll be anyone you like."

Victor also had stars in his eyes at the sight of this beautiful young woman. Raven, for her part, had temporarily put the book down, officially interested in the turn of conversation.

"I wish you could be," Barbara replied. "Then you'd save me a lot of trouble. I'm looking for Dick Grayson."

Gar nearly fell off the chair in disappointment and disbelief, wishing that he could polymorph into humans, too.

"He mentioned once that you were a friend of his," Barbara continued. "I was hoping that you might know where I can find him."

"Why do they always want Dick…?" Gar moaned to himself.

"She's cuter than the last one," Victor observed.

Gar fumed and Raven smirked. Already she had lightly skimmed the redhead's thoughts. She caught flashes of curiosity mixed in with a strong sense of friendship for Dick. That satisfied Raven enough for her to back off.

"We don't know where he is," she stoically informed the redhead.

"Yeah," Gar piped up. "He's off hiding somewhere, studying or something."

"So I heard," said Barbara with a slight hint of dejection. "Well if you do see him, tell him that Barbara Gordon is looking for him."

"Will do," Victor replied with a smile. Barbara smiled back, then waved to the three friends and left the pizza shop.

"Why does everyone come to me when they want Dick?" Gar moaned again.

"I guess they think you're easy?" Victor offered with a grin.

"Or that you have connections," Raven deadpanned.

Garfield punched Victor and then had to shake the pain out of his hand. Raven smirked behind her book while Gar leveled a fiercely half-hearted scowl at her.

"Life just isn't fair," he whined, taking an angry slurp of soda.

Raven's smirk nearly became a grin. "It never is."

* * *

**Late night**

Robin was perched on a rooftop overlooking a row of warehouses in Hell's Kitchen. Hernandez had come through for him, informing him that the museum was installing extra surveillance cameras and contracting more security personnel to help safeguard the exhibit, which opens tomorrow. If Robin's hunch was correct and Two-Face really was planning a heist for Saturday night, then most likely he would need to hire more goons to counter the added security guards, and the best place to find cheap muscle outside of Gotham (when one doesn't have the time to go to Blüdhaven) was here in the Kitchen.

Robin knelt on his perch on the rooftop, reviewing the map of Hell's Kitchen he had formed in his mind during his whirlwind grappling gun tour. He reasoned that Harvey would show up here sooner or later looking for a few dumb grunts, and the warehouses below were gathering places for such men. Abandoned for many years, the warehouses were home to nearly a hundred of the City's homeless, more than half of which were vagrant, out of work drug users waiting to spend the last of their stolen petty cash on the next fix, which the rotating door of various drug dealers readily provided on a nearly nightly basis. After touring the neighborhood, Robin surmised that if Harvey was to try and recruit more help that this would be the first place he'd check, and so the Bird sat, patiently waiting.

That was until he heard a sudden burst of gunfire.

Robin's head snapped around to the east. He switched on the mild telescopic function in his mask and saw was appeared to be a mini-gang war erupting three blocks away. Cursing that he couldn't maintain his stakeout position, Robin whipped out his grappling gun and fired a jump line.

* * *

Barbara Gordon was swinging through the New York City skyline, relishing the rush of wind through her hair and reveling in the joys of being Batgirl. She _knew_ Robin had to be somewhere in this city, and she was determined to find him. 

Barbara figured that her best bet was to stick to the more crime-infested areas, for where else would a masked vigilante concentrate his efforts? That deduction is what brought her to Hell's Kitchen. She stood on the roof of a convenience store and took in the sights, admiring the skyline and the rush of adrenaline that was the knowledge that she was far from the Bat's protective reach. She was truly flying solo now, and without a safety net. The prospect thrilled her and scared her with equal measure.

She loved that feeling.

Barbara was about to take to the skies again to begin a serious search of the Kitchen when suddenly she heard the sound of gunfire.

"Looks like all I'll have to do is follow the sound of cowardly and superstitious criminals…" And she took off in the direction of the sound.

Batgirl traced the gunfire back to its source: five teenaged boys taking potshots at each other with semi-automatic weapons down an alleyway. Two boys were hiding behind a dumpster while the other three were taking cover behind a stripped car. Batgirl pulled out a batarang as she surveyed the scene, trying to decide how best to do this. In a perfect world, Robin or even Batman would be with her, and she would drop in on one group while her counterpart would simultaneously drop in on the other, taking out the crossfire. This time, however, she was on her own.

That meant that she needed a plan.

Batgirl quickly reasoned that she could get into position behind the two thugs at the dumpster without crossing the line of sight of the three across the street. She would then take out one of their guns with a batarang, effectively catching them off guard. Their moment of surprised reaction would provide the window she needed. She would be able to drop in and take them down quickly and easily in their moment of distraction. Then when the other three come out from behind the car, thinking that they've won, she would knock their guns out of their hands with batarangs and take them down in hand-to-hand combat.

Plan decided, Batgirl moved into position. She wasn't as stealthy as she would have liked—Batman hadn't gotten very far in teaching her that, but thankfully the thugs were too distracted with shooting at each other to notice the dark-clad vigilante leaping from rooftop to rooftop around them.

Batgirl got into position and crouched down, simultaneously aiming a batarang while getting ready to spring at the two unsuspecting thugs. She focused in on the one on the left—he was toting a Thompson's sub-machinegun that presented a larger target than his companion's Swenson.

The thug leaned out around the dumpster, fired two shots, leaned back. He caught his breath, leaned forward, fired two more shots, and leaned back again. The pattern repeated itself a third time, and Batgirl readied herself to make the throw. The thug caught his breath (_wait for it…_), leaned forward (_hang on…_), brought the gun up into firing position—

SWISH-SWI-SWISH-SWISH CLANG!

The batarang connected with the sub-machinegun and knocked it out of the thug's hands.

"What the—"

He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence.

Batgirl descended from above them, cape billowing out and casting menacing shadows in the flickering yellow streetlights. Batgirl landed a foot away from the thug, whose eyes went wide in the split second before she clasped her fists together and used the rest of her downward momentum to crack the thug atop the head and send him crashing to the pavement into oblivion.

The other thug stood dazed, unable to react as Batgirl took out his buddy. Batgirl winked at him before reaching out and swiping the Swenson. The thug looked to his hands in confusion right before he too fell unconscious, Batgirl having swung the gun around and hit him over the head with it like a club.

"Nighty night, boys," she purred. After double-checking that they were really unconscious, Batgirl crouched behind the dumpster and peered around the side. The three behind the car weren't firing at the moment. All she had to do was wait until they were confident enough to emerge from their hiding spot. Then she would have them.

She didn't have to wait long.

One at a time, like brightly colored prairie dogs, the three thugs stuck their heads above the stripped car. Finding no shots coming their way, the thugs gained the confidence to stand up, exposing most of their torsos. They still kept their guns at the ready as they cautiously made their way out from behind their cover.

Batgirl took three batarangs from her utility belt. Batman hadn't yet taught her how to throw many batarangs at once to take out multiple targets. She would have to throw them quickly one at a time. She wasn't worried, however. She was Batgirl. She could do this!

The three thugs made their way into the alleyway, looking around and laughing nervously as they spoke amongst themselves. Batgirl's cowl didn't have advanced hearing aids and her lip-reading skills were mediocre at best, so she focused instead on palming a batarang, waiting for the exact perfect moment…

It never came.

Suddenly Robin dropped out of the sky, landing with flawless grace between Batgirl and the three thugs. Batgirl's eyes widened and the thugs gasped in shock. Robin stood erect and stared down at them, his five foot ten inch frame seeming to tower over them in a perfect imitation of the Bat. His eyes narrowed under his mask, and his mouth was set in a thin, disapproving line.

"It's Daredevil!" one thug cried. "Run!"

Then all hell broke loose.

Two of the thugs—Batgirl couldn't see which ones, opened fire on the Boy Wonder. Unfortunately for them, in the time it took for them to raise their weapons and pull the triggers, Robin had moved well outside their line of fire. The burst of gunfire went sailing down the alley and Batgirl had to scramble for cover behind the dumpster.

By the time the thugs realized they were aiming at nothing Robin was already launching himself into the air from his out-of-the-way-of-gunfire position. Robin leapt high enough to grab onto the lowest rung of a sawed off fire escape latter. He then swung his legs up and caught one thug hard beneath the chin, sending him flying backwards into the side of the stripped car.

The two remaining thugs took aim and fired, but Robin was already executing a dismount from his makeshift high bar. He flipped over the heads of the thugs—who couldn't pivot, aim, and fire with enough speed and accuracy to hit him as he perfectly executed his patented quadruple flip. Robin added a half-twist to his rotation and landed in a crouched position on the roof of the car, facing the thugs.

The thugs took aim and fired again.

Once again Robin was too fast for them. Before either of them even got a single shot off, the Boy Wonder had launched himself off the car—arms outstretched—and sailed into the thugs before they had a chance to re-aim their guns.

The sheer force of Robin barreling into them was enough to knock them down. Before they were splayed completely flat Robin pushed off of their chests (where his hands had landed) and executed a perfect front half-twisting handspring. Robin was on his feet again, standing behind them as they rolled on the ground and tried to stand again.

They were so dazed that they forgot to pick their guns up from where they'd fallen.

Robin didn't give them the chance to correct the oversight. Actually, he didn't even give them the chance to finish standing up. He jumped high and kicked his feet out, hitting each thug square in the face. They tumbled backwards and hit the pavement.

This time they didn't get up again.

The two thugs were out cold.

Robin stooped and picked up their guns before walking over to the other thug, whom he had left reclining unconsciously against the side of the car. That thug was starting to come around, but Robin changed his mind with one well-placed punch. Then he picked up the last of the guns.

"Man without fear indeed," he muttered as he removed the cartridges from each gun. These he pocketed; the guns he dropped unceremoniously into a pile.

"I have two more cartridges for you," Batgirl called out as she approached him. She had the cartridges in one arm and the guns in the other.

"Good. They didn't shoot you when you were hiding behind that dumpster."

"Hey I wasn't _hiding_, I was taking _cover!_" Batgirl protested as she dropped her guns into the pile with Robin's. "I was only back there because I was taking out the two thugs using the dumpster as cover for this back alley shootout. And since I'm the reason you didn't have any crossfire to worry about, Short Pants, I think a thank-you is in order."

"What thank-you? Because of you I had to dance around like a jumping bean on crack instead of taking them head on so that _you_ didn't catch a stray bullet."

"Yeah well I had everything perfectly under control until you decided to drop in."

"This isn't your city, Batgirl," Robin dismissed in a close approximation of _the voice_. "What are you doing here?"

"It ain't your city either, Short Pants," Batgirl pointed out rather hotly. "I could ask you the same question."

"First off, your observation skills need work: I'm not wearing short pants anymore. Secondly, if you're trying to claim squatter's rights to this city then I was here first. Third, I'm not looking for a partner." Then, in a lower, almost bitter voice: "Why don't you go try Batman, I hear he's working solo these days."

"Yeah well, first to you, Boy Wonder, I'm not here to take over New York. I came here looking for _you_, if you believe that. I wanted to know why you left Gotham and maybe ask you what horrible infestation crawled up the Bat's ass and died before you left. Second, partnering with Batman, while educational, is damn near intolerable and I honestly have no idea how you managed for so long. And third," Batgirl adopted a broad, teasing grin. "You'll always be 'Short Pants' to me."

"Nnnnngh, get a room…" One thug grunted as he tried to push himself into a sitting position. Simultaneously both vigilantes reached out and punched him, each hitting the thug directly in a different eye. He collapsed back down to the pavement in an unconscious heap.

"Go home, Batgirl," Robin ordered as he turned his back and began walking.

"Oh, why do you have to be such a… such a dick?"

Robin froze in his tracks. "Learned from the best," he said, neutrally. "And who are you to talk?" he asked as he continued walking. "You're a better dick than I am if you're _his_ current partner."

Batgirl sputtered and fumed. "Oooooh! Why you little—"

She was silenced when Robin help up a finger from the payphone across the street he had crossed to. He used his calling card to alert the cops to the five unconscious thugs in the alley but hung up before they could ask for any specific details.

"I guess Bat hasn't trained you well enough," Robin mused coldly. "You'll need to work on those anger issues."

Just then a city bus drove through the street that separated them. In the two seconds that it took for the bus to pass, Robin had vanished without a trace.

"I _hate_ it when they do that!"

* * *

Bartgirl spent nearly an hour combing Hell's Kitchen again looking for Robin. Finally, grudgingly, she admitted defeat. At least she found him _once_, she thought. Now that she knew where he was she could stop worrying that he'd dropped off the face of the earth, or worse, hung up the cape for good. 

Barbara somehow managed to make it back to her motel room without anyone spotting Batgirl. A nice, long shower later and most of her anger had dissipated. In its place sat burning curiosity.

His suit was different. Contrary to popular opinion, that was obvious the first moment she saw him. Gone indeed were the short pants that he wore three seasons a year. Long green pants had replaced them, a few shades darker than his original coloring. In fact, darkness was the overall theme for the changes she noticed. The vest wasn't 'robin red' anymore. Instead it was a deeper vermillion color, and either Robin's gained considerable girth or there's armor sewn into the vest as well. The short yellow cape had been replaced as well. Now he wore a longer two-tone cape, black on the outside and dark yellow on the inside—much darker than the original yellow. She would even stake a bet that the bottom of the cape was lined with sharpened lead for an extra offensive weapon, just like Batman's. Yet it didn't seem to impede his tumbling ability any, which was surprising.

No… not surprising at all. Thinking back, Barbara had gotten a good look at his arms. The kid has obviously been working out, _a lot_. The extra weight of the new suit didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. In fact, she thought that Robin was operating at the peak of his performance.

With mixed feelings, she acknowledged that 'Short Pants' had finally grown up.

Of course, growing up is no excuse for catching the asshole disease. What was with the attitude adjustment? It seems that along with the original costume, Robin traded in the witty banter, cocky grin, and general enthusiasm for the job. He was all business now, no smiles and certainly no wasted words. He had grown more Bat-like, it seemed, and Barbara had no qualms mourning _that_ fact openly.

Even still, not even _Batman_ is as openly bitter and argumentative as Robin was tonight. From the way he was talking he made it sound like he and Batman were no longer partners. Heck, she wouldn't be surprised if they weren't even on _speaking_ terms anymore. That would certainly answer a few questions.

Well, except for the obvious. _What the hell happened in Gotham last year?_

Even though she showered, Barbara still didn't feel quite ready for bed. Something _else_ was nagging at her brain, something that she couldn't quite put a finger on. So she decided to head down to the hotel lobby and buy herself a copy of _The Wall Street Journal_. If that doesn't put her to sleep, nothing will.

Barbara climbed under the covers and turned on the reading lamp. She didn't get much farther than the first page before the paper nearly fell out of her hands.

_Metropolitan Museum prepares for grand opening of Egyptian Twins exhibit._

A sinking feeling hit her stomach like a brick.

Harvey Dent's whereabouts were still unknown. Robin had made his first appearance in New York after months of apparent retirement barely a week after Dent had escaped. It could only mean one thing: Robin was hunting Two-Face.

Suddenly the second wave of dread hit. Robin was hunting Two-Face _alone_, with no help from or even communication with Batman.

"That's what _he_ thinks," Barbara vowed. No way in hell was she letting Short Pants go up against a villain as dangerous as Harvey Two-Face Dent without any backup whatsoever.

The 'why New York' question answered, Barbara shut the light off and tried to get some sleep.

She wasn't very successful.

* * *

Robin made his way back around to the warehouses he was staking out before his little sojourn into a shootout. He couldn't deny how good it felt to kick the crap out of bad guys again. He noticed with relish how all of his extra training had made sure that the new, heavier suit didn't affect his performance at all. In fact, he believed that when all was said and done, he was even _faster_ than he was before his enforced sabbatical a year ago. His strength and endurance were back where they should be, too, if not better as well. He was officially Robin again: reinvented to be stronger, faster, and entirely more badass than the 'Short Pants' Batgirl mistook him for in that alley. 

At that thought Robin silently fumed. What the hell was _she_ doing here anyway? While part of him was oddly touched that she came all the way out here to find him seemingly as soon as she found out where he was, the bigger part of him was too pissed off to care about sentiment. Robin doesn't need Batgirl to check up on him. Even though Barbara's three years older than him, _Robin_ is a much better vigilante than Batgirl with more training and experience under his utility belt. What right does she think she has, coming here to look for him?

Of course, this arrogant machismo, wherein Robin kept telling himself over and over again until he believed that he didn't need help from anyone, not Batman and _certainly_ not Batgirl, was just the cover story for the real reason he was so angry with her. Well, the two real reasons he was angry, if he was honest with himself.

First, that mini-showdown in that alleyway had distracted him from his real purpose in Hell's Kitchen: his mission to take down Harvey Dent. He wanted—no, _needed_ Two-Face. Their rivalry was years in the making. As much as he wanted to rip the Joker limb from limb in payment for the gunshot wound and his falling out with Bruce… Two-Face is the only villain that's ever made him fail, and in their business, failure is NOT an option. When Robin fails… people die. Innocent people. People who by rights should still be alive today if it wasn't for his horrible, horrible mistake: his failure to anticipate Two-Face's probable move. Even though Batman had never blamed him, Dick knew that he didn't have to. His own sense of guilt was more than sufficient. In his mind, he will never atone for that failure until he takes Two-Face down, drags him by the scar tissue back to Arkham personally… behind his old motorcycle if he had his way.

Now Robin was perched on a rooftop again, overlooking the warehouses. To the untrained eye, nothing appeared to have changed. However, Robin was easily able to spot the subtle differences that drew his night from bad to worse. A few of the vagrants were missing, and there was a fresh set of skid marks, and a small puddle of something that leaked from a car that wasn't there before. Translated: Harvey had come and gone while Robin was off busting heads and arguing with Batgirl. While there really was no way to tell when exactly Two-Face had made his appearance, that didn't stop Robin from blaming Batgirl for making him take extra time with the alleyway bust as the reason he missed his opportunity at the warehouses.

He was afraid of that happening from the moment he detected Batgirl's presence behind the dumpster. That and, knowing Barbara as he does, the minute she gets wind of Two-Face being in town, there's no way she'd leave. Two-Face is a dangerous enemy, one that Batman strove to keep her from facing even when Robin was still his partner. Robin didn't want Barbara to get herself killed taking on a villain way out of her league. He's read in the Gotham papers that Batgirl had been spotted helping Batman capture the Mad Hatter and Catwoman (the latter unfortunately escaping police custody shortly thereafter), but as far as the spectrum of Gotham freak shows is concerned, those are two of the 'safer' villains. They aren't into random acts of violence and don't kill people as a general rule. Granted what Hatter has planned for the lithe blonds he captures would probably get him castrated with a butter knife if ever he went to Blackgate instead of Arkham, but that doesn't make him a villain that Batman would go out of his way to prevent Barbara from helping him take him down.

Concern for Batgirl's safety was only the outward reason. Dig a little deeper and you'll find the real reason: Dick wants Two-Face all to himself. No Batman to take the lead and certainly no Batgirl to back him up.

Barbara's already made him miss Two-Face once. If she doesn't leave town soon she'll find out about the museum and Saturday and she won't leave town at all. His vendetta will be spoiled _and_ he'll probably be too worried about Barbara's safety to even secure the collar on Two-Face anyway.

As sufficient enough as those reasons to be angry with Batgirl were, they weren't what bothered him the most. They weren't the reasons why he spent three hours in the campus gym after returning from being Robin. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't go _looking_ for fights as Robin because the more often he's seen, the greater the likelihood that Two-Face will hear of his presence in the city. If he wanted to take out his frustrations, the all-night gym was his best bet, and he took full advantage of it.

Dick settled for taking his anger out on a punching bag, and boy did that punching bag have a rough night. Aside from missing his chance at Harvey, aside from Batgirl complicating matters with her very presence, aside from his worry that she'll blow the entire operation, what bothered him the most about tonight was much subtler, much simpler than that.

_Partnering with Batman, while educational, is damn near intolerable and I honestly have no idea how you managed for so long._

_Partnering with Batman…_

_Partnering…_

…

_"There isn't going to be a next time. Robin is a liability that Batman cannot afford."_

_"Is that what I am to you? A liability? I thought we were partners."_

_"We were. I'm ending the partnership."_

_"But—"_

_"I won't risk you getting hurt again." _

_"It's my risk to take. I knew that going in."_

_"Not anymore. I can't—I won't, take that risk."_

…

_"Partnering with Batman, while educational, is damn near intolerable and I honestly have no idea how you managed for so long."_

…

_"I'm ending the partnership."_

…

_"I won't, take that risk."_

…

…

…

That punching bag had a very, very rough night.

* * *

AN- _Batman Forever _combined the story of Dick's parents' deaths with his grudge against Two-Face. The _real_ story behind the rivalry can be found in _Robin Year One. _This story is a retelling of older canon, however. During Robin's first year as Batman's sidekick, Two-Face captured both Batman and a judge (older canon: the latest Gotham district attorney, which is the identity of the victim used in this story) and it was up to Robin to save the day. To make a long story short Robin gets the stuffing beaten out of him (nearly to death) by Two-Face, Batman frees himself at the last minute to save his sidekick, and the DA dies anyway. 


	10. Friday

**Friday****Morning**

After his excruciating workout, Dick was able to get his requisite four hours of sleep for the night. He woke up just after nine a.m., feeling a bit groggy but no worse for wear after his first real night of vigilante activity. Thankfully he didn't have to head down to criminology at ten. That left him free until writing at 3:30. In that time, Dick had one simple daylight Robin mission to accomplish before using whatever time was left to study for his exams.

Dick threw a breakfast burrito into the microwave and booted up his laptop. He reviewed the logs of his security cameras and saw that Garfield had been by his door multiple times last night. It was odd, having friends that didn't know he was Robin. Growing up, his close friends had been Roy, Wally, Garth, and Donna, and they had saved the world together too many times to bother with such trivial things as secret identities. That had left only Barbara, but his friendship with her couldn't even begin to touch the others. And besides, he knew she was Batgirl…

Batgirl.

His thoughts returned once again to the athletic redhead that had sashayed into his vacated position by Batman's side. Batman couldn't have a partner, because partners were liabilities. So he had fired his partner, theoretically to keep him safe. Yet now, Robin finds that the role of squire to the Dark Knight has been filled by Batgirl, who is less skilled, less trained, and less competent as a vigilante. _What? Are girls magically bulletproof now?_

Dick was practically seething with anger, to the point where not even three hours of kicking the stuffing out of punching bags was sufficient release. Of course it wasn't Barbara's fault. She just happened to be in Gotham at the time, and he was stuck out here in Long Island. Barbara was just the easy target for his anger.

Really his anger was just a cover for how hurt and betrayed he felt that Batman—no, that _Bruce_, could just up and replace him so easily. The salt in the wound was that it was _Batgirl_, whom he had been personally sent to rescue on more than one occasion because she wasn't trained enough to make it on her own. Apparently Robin is too much of a liability to the Bat, but a lesser vigilante who just happens to be the daughter of the police commissioner isn't.

If he had felt angry, hurt, betrayed, and cast aside _before_, it was nothing to what he was experiencing now. Unfortunately, Boy Wonders don't have the luxury of anger. Emotions must always be channeled into something more useful, and as Dick ate his burrito and used his interface with the Bat-computer to track Barbara Gordon's credit card purchases to the hotel she checked into, he had a fairly good idea of how to do that.

First things first: he needed to clean up after Batman's mistake. Barbara was in the city because Bruce hadn't taken the costume away from her, as he should have done after he denied it to Robin if not even before that. Now she was in his way, and it was imperative that nothing stop him from taking down Harvey Dent. Not only that, but Batgirl had never been allowed to go up against Two-Face. Robin already has enough deaths on his conscience caused by the villain; he doesn't need Barbara's too.

To sum up, Dick needed to get Barbara out of town by tomorrow, for his benefit as well as her own. Of course, Barbara's not the type to leave if he were to ask her. On the contrary, she would probably decide to stay just to, well, be contrary. He would need to engineer a way that would give her _no choice_ but to leave of her own accord, and as Dick powered down his laptop with a satisfactory grin, he knew exactly what would accomplish that.

* * *

Dick, dressed in casual clothes (a.k.a. an undercover uniform), drove the Red Bird in civilian mode out to the motel that Barbara was staying in. He recognized her blue Taurus sedan in the parking lot and parked the Red Bird a few spots away. Neither Barbara nor Batgirl had seen either incarnation of the car, so stakeout was a breeze. With an amused smirk Robin mused that Barbara wasn't the type to be paranoid about a stalker possibly watching her every move when she wasn't in costume. She wouldn't sense him watching when she left the hotel that morning, which would give him the freedom to break into her room without having to worry about being caught. 

Sure enough, Barbara left her room around eleven, and without her bags. Undercover-Robin watched as she climbed into her car and drove out of the lot. He waited another ten minutes to be sure that she wasn't going to double back for anything. Thus satisfied that he could accomplish his 'mission' uninterrupted, Dick grabbed his spare set of Bat-approved lock picks from the glove box and left the car.

After tracking the hotel, Dick had 'accidentally' stumbled into their computer system and discovered that she was in room twenty. Thankfully it was on the back side of the motel block and so wasn't visible to the lobby and hotel manager. He could pick a standard lock in under fifteen seconds at his fastest, but even if it were to take as long as a minute, it was still plenty of time.

Less than a minute after he left the car, Dick was standing in the middle of Barbara Gordon's hotel room. A quick search and he found where she hid the Batgirl costume: at the bottom of her travel bag covered with dirty clothes. Dick sadly shook his head: the least she could have done was hidden it beneath a fake panel or something.

He had what he came for now. He put the costume in a shopping bag and left the room, locking it behind him. He'd let Barbara sweat over where she placed the costume to teach her a lesson about finding more secure places to stash it. Besides, he was fairly certain that she'd find out what he did with it eventually…

* * *

**Lunchtime**

"Ready to go, Vic?"

"Sure, Gar. Just lemme grab a jacket."

The two friends were getting ready to leave Victor's apartment for the Metropolitan Museum.

"You know, Vic, what with all your cool body modifications and stuff, you could walk around naked and no one care—not that I wanna see you naked or anything."

"Yeah, sure," Victor dismissed rather bitterly. "People would be yelling 'FREAK!' instead of 'FLASHER!' Very appealing."

"You don't look like a freak," Garfield reassured his friend. "You look like a cyborg."

"Funny." Victor now had his jacket on and was fishing in the pockets to be sure he had his keys. His apartment wasn't all that much to look at, but he paid for it himself with no help from his father, so he therefore it was the best apartment in the world. Even though he didn't particularly fear for his safety, he was rather attached to the necessities and creature comforts he had outfitted the place with, and given that this was Brooklyn, Victor had installed three additional deadbolts on his door, each with a different key. "You ready?"

"Totally," Garfield answered with a grin.

Victor gestured for Gar to precede him and the green teenager did so. Victor then pulled the door shut tight and locked the door lock and four deadbolts behind them.

"Good," he said when he was done. "Let's go."

The two friends made their way down the four flights of stairs to the ground level. From there, it was a two-block walk to the subway station.

"All I'm saying, Vic, is that you don't gotta hide who you are. I mean, _I'm_ the freak here. People won't look at you any different than they do guys with wooden legs and stuff."

"Yeah? You all still stare at the guy with wooden legs, making pirate jokes behind his back when you don't think he can hear you. I've spent my time in hospitals and rehabilitation centers with other… amputees. The counselors always try and tell us that we're only imagining how much people stare. I'd like to see how they deal with the world when _this_ happens to _them_."

"But you can still live a normal life. People may stare or crack jokes when you walk into a Burger King but they aren't gonna grab their kids by the hand and run screaming for the door like you're Swamp Thing or something."

"You don't look like Swamp Thing," Victor pointed out. "You look like Tork. They'll all be running screaming for your autograph."

"Shhhhhhhh!" Garfield flailed. "Ixnay on the Orktay!"

Victor laughed aloud. "Why are you so ashamed of your acting career?" he asked. "Do you have any idea how many people would kill to get the chance to star in a cult classic?"

"Cult classic?" Gar scoffed. "Dude, you're delusional. A cheesy sci-fi action/adventure yarn with convoluted B-movie script plotlines and a screwy shape-shifting alien that can never land a date _soooo_ isn't classic. It's barely even cult."

"Whatever you say, Odo."

"AAAARRRRGGGHH!"

* * *

Barbara Gordon spent the morning with her 'Uncle Xavier' taking a tour of the campus. Unfortunately she didn't see Dick anywhere, but then she wasn't really expecting to just bump into him by chance. Now Dr. Cabrini had a class to teach and she was on her own until lunchtime. 

That gave her plenty of time to hit up the library.

There were a series of coincidences that needed explaining, and any way she painted the picture in her head, she didn't like the conclusions. All of the pieces seemed to fit together, and yet at the same time, they _shouldn't_ fit. It _can't_ be true. Not after all this time!

Barbara was seated before one of the microfiche readers, scrolling through old copies of the _Gotham City Herald_. Batman reports and sightings were fairly commonplace, but for months there has been no sign of Robin. Nothing during the time that he was supposedly 'going to college.'

"Yeah right. Body building college," Barbara mused to herself as she scrolled. "And just what would Short Pants study?"

…

_"Hey, Dick! What did you say your major was?"_

_"Criminology. But I'm thinking of picking up a psych minor."_

…

"What indeed…"

Barbara scrolled back though the previous year and found nothing on Robin. If she had thought he disappeared sometime over the summer than she was a bit off. There had been no reported sightings for many months prior… in fact, nearly a year.

Barbara had scrolled all the way back to last October, pausing when she came to the headline about Dick's mugging. She'll never forget the look on her father's face when he told her what had happened. She also never thought she'd be thanking the Joker for anything, either, but according to reports it was his goons that scared off Dick's muggers and led Batman to the scene, saving Dick's life.

Forcing herself to scroll past the article, Barbara found that she didn't have far to go.

_Batman and Robin reportedly hot on Joker's trail._

Just three days before the mugging.

"Three days…"

Three days.

Then something else clicked in her brain. Frantically she scrolled forward several weeks, looking for—

_Police escort Joker back to Arkham after his release from the lockdown ward of Gotham City General Hospital_

As Barbara read on, she learned that credit for the Joker's capture wasn't revealed due to unproven allegations of police brutality. However, Barbara knew that her father was there that night. There was no police brutality, but that didn't change the fact that the Joker needed surgery to set his broken ribs before they punctured a lung, and it was alleged that the broken femur might give him a limp for the rest of his life. Rumors of just how many units of blood he needed were never substantiated.

…

_"He slipped."_

…

"Sure Bullock. Right into Batman's fists."

Barbara stood from her chair on slightly shaky legs. It all fit. Every piece. The coincidences between Robin and Dick were too good to be true, and most likely _not_ coincidence. The Joker must have shot Dick as Robin. That's how Batman was able to save him. That's why Dick refused to talk about the mugging, and why Batman refused to talk about Robin. That's why Robin was wearing a new costume, and why Batman nearly beat the Joker to death before leaving him for the GCPD.

Dick went to Hudson University to major in criminology and psychology. It was a bit of a character departure for him, but Barbara hadn't given it much thought. However, it was the _perfect_ combination for Robin to study, especially under the tutelage of Drs Cabrini and Beach, both world-renowned in their fields. And 'Uncle Xavier' did mention how impressed he was with Dick's academic performance, and Cabrini doesn't impress easily. The Dick she knew was far from stupid, but no one would have called him 'brilliant,' either, especially in those particular fields of study. However, _Robin_ was.

The Dick she knew loved to swing from chandeliers and flip off of banisters to impress her, and _Robin_ has to be just about the best acrobat in the world.

Dick _had_ to be Robin. There was no other explanation.

Barbara rewound the microfiche and popped the reel out of the viewer. She left it in the box of other discarded reels waiting for the librarians to reshelf them and made her way towards the door.

If she was the type, a good stiff drink would have done nicely. A nice strong latte would have to suffice.

All these years… she couldn't believe that she'd missed what was right under her nose. How many times has she seen Robin perform his patented quadruple flip, the one _Dick Grayson_ is world famous for? How many times has Dick told her things like how he injured his leg in a snowmobile accident the day after _Robin_ took a crowbar to the knee? It all fit, and yet she hadn't seen it until now.

And there was still Two-Face to contend with, but now it was _Dick_ who was going up against the villain. Somehow, that made it worse.

* * *

Raven was on her way to the library in search of new reading material. She held the books she'd checked out last week in one arm while the other reached for the library door. 

Then she jumped back as the door swung open.

"Raven?"

The goth girl had to compose herself quickly. She was caught off-guard by the sudden appearance of Dick Grayson's redheaded friend from the other day, whose thoughts and emotions were such a jumbled mess that she had to block it all before she gleaned anything from her mind.

"Barbara," she droned, masking her recovery. Then something caught her attention. Not a thought or a feeling per se. More like the memory of one, belatedly separated out from the rest of the cacophony that was Barbara's surface thoughts and emotions. That coupled with the seemingly haunted look in the redhead's eyes…

"Did you ever get a hold of Grayson?"

"No," Barbara replied, slightly breathless. She shook her head just as slightly. "If you'll excuse me…" And she brushed passed Raven without so much as another look in her direction.

The goth girl turned and stared after her for a moment, remembering the concern that flashed through Barbara's eyes at the mention of Dick Grayson. Raven recovered herself quickly though, and continued into the library to return her books. Searching for new ones to check out for the week could wait, however. She knew Dick's class schedule, and she knew where he lived. She _would_ find him and finally get some answers, especially to the question of what was plaguing Barbara Gordon.

* * *

**Mid Afternoon**

Garfield and Victor had finished their tour of the museum, and Gar had (hopefully) taken enough notes for the paper assignment that was the point of the self-guided field trip. Even though Gar doubted that he'd ever understand what ancient Egyptian art had to do with popular American culture, he grudgingly had to admit that the artifacts were impressive to look at. With Victor there to make jokes with (and to keep him from getting lost in the museum), Gar found that he was actually enjoying himself, especially now that they had abandoned the museum for the gift shop.

"Forty bucks for a tee-shirt? Dude, what a rip-off!"

"They only overcharge you because they need the revenue to keep the museum open."

"But I thought that rich dudes donated all the money this place needs. Didn't you see all those names on the plaques on the wall?"

Victor shrugged. "Well maybe it's how they afford to buy more souvenirs," he offered.

Gar frowned slightly. "Whatever, man. I can't afford anything in here. Let's just go before it gets too depressing."

"Ah, the sad life of a broke college student," Victor lamented as they left the gift shop.

"Heh, tell me about it."

"Well, at least we got discounted admissions with our college IDs. It's too bad the museum café and the gift shop won't accept it though. So, we still on for GameStation at my place? I was thinking that we could grab a few slices of pizza on the way back—"

Suddenly the throng of people seemed to close in around them, and Victor and Garfield stopped short. Several large men then parted, and a tall, thin man with a pale, plastic-looking face and wide-brimmed hat stepped into view.

"Ah, excuse me?" Victor asked, slightly annoyed.

"I knooowwww yoouuu," the man drawled, somewhere between a purr and a hiss.

Garfield blinked and his jaw dropped. "Whoa…" he breathed.

Victor looked anxiously between the two of them.

"I'd recognize you anywhere, Garfield Logan. Your face is… rather hard to miss."

Garfield swallowed hard. "So's yours," he replied with false bravado.

The man sniggered and shook his head. "What are you doing here, Garfield? I never figured you for the museum type."

"We had homework," Victor replied, sounding impatient.

Garfield winced and the man laughed.

"Ah yes, you're in college now. I heard through the… proverbial grapevine. I saw your father not too long ago. I know he's _very_ proud of you."

"Which one?" Garfield asked before he could stop himself, but once again the man only laughed.

"Oh that's right. I've forgotten that I've met _both_ the men who've tried to claim the title. The first seems like a lifetime ago."

Garfield forced himself to say nothing at that.

"Look, you guys want something?" Victor asked rather hotly. It didn't take Einstein to figure out that his friend was less than thrilled with this chance meeting. "We're kinda in a hurry."

"Your manners are slipping," the man intoned. "You haven't introduced us to your friend yet."

"Victor Stone," Victor answered for himself, crossing his rather large arms. The large men behind the speaker shifted slightly on their feet.

"My, my, but this could get interesting."

"It doesn't have to," Gar replied quickly.

Suddenly the man unclenched his fist and a coin popped into the air. Victor heard Garfield hold his breath while the silver disc rotated in the air. Then the man caught it, glanced at it, and grinned a plastic grin.

"You should be getting back to campus, Garfield," said the man. "I know daddy won't like you being out in the big city after dark. So many frightful things happen in the big city at night."

"We were on our way now, until you decided to stand in the way to say hello."

Garfield audibly gasped when Vic said that, and the stranger's grin turned feral.

"Far be it for us to stand in your way then." He and his entourage walked forward, parting around Garfield and Victor, and continued on towards the exhibits. "See you around, Garfield."

* * *

The weather was still nice enough for many of the students to decide to take their homework outdoors. The lawns in front of the dormitories and classroom buildings were prime locations for such things, and a good handful of students were sitting here reading or working on laptops in the bright afternoon sunshine. 

Reading a dime novel she had picked up at a nearby drug store, Barbara Gordon sat among them. With her hair pulled back and her head down she hoped that Dick—if he really was who she _thought_ he was—wouldn't be able to pick her out of the crowd. She sat on her jacket, pretending to read as she kept silent surveillance on the throngs of passers-by, keeping an eye out for Dick Grayson.

The spot she chose gave her an excellent view of the main entrance to Flanders Hall, the building that housed the English department. Hacking the registrar's office to see Dick's schedule had been easy. He had college writing at 3:30. If she didn't see him walking elsewhere then surely she would spot him as he made his way to class, and from this vantage point she would be able to instantly tell if he was Robin. It was simple enough: Robin had toned up quite a bit since the last tine she'd seen him, and though Dick was deceptively muscular, his build always strayed on the thin and wiry side. If when she saw him he looked considerably like he had been working out then Barbara would have her answer.

At three 3:28 Barbara's stakeout paid off.

She nearly missed him. His hair had grown out a bit and hung untamed and loosely combed. His dark jeans and combat boots were a far cry from the Dockers and loafers she remembered, but the _Gotham Knights_ championship tee shirt was a giveaway, as was the backpack he was carrying. It was the same one that he would carry books in when he would keep her company at the Gotham University Library.

More than these clues, Barbara noticed his agility in the way he darted between and around slower students as he tried to get to class on time, and how he effortlessly leapt up from the ground to the top of the staircase, clearing the three concrete steps with ease. She saw the look on his face that hovered between expressionless and determination, and she saw his arms. The muscles, while still not blatantly prominent, were a lot more defined than they used to be.

There was no denying it.

Dick Grayson was Robin, the Boy Wonder.

As her stomach lurched from the implications of this discovery, Barbara wondered whether or not she was better off not knowing.

* * *

**Dinnertime**

"Jeez Gar, that's the eighth race in a row I've beaten you at."

Garfield sighed and discarded his controller. "Sorry, dude. I'll get you next time. I promise."

"What's up with you today? You haven't been the same since we left the museum. I know that creepy guy we ran into has something to do with it."

"I already told you, it's nothing. Nothing important anyway."

"Bull. If it's so unimportant you wouldn't be thinking about it instead of trying to kick my ass in videogames."

"It's nothing you wanna worry about," Gar dismissed as he stood from the floor and grabbed a seat on the futon.

"Look," Victor began, standing as well. "Since I moved to Brooklyn and started college, aside from a few cool acquaintances I've made only one friend, and that's you dawg. Now we agreed that we'd be able to talk about stuff with each other that we can't and won't tell other people. Talk to me, Gar. Appease my curiosity."

Garfield sighed again as he stared up at Victor from the futon. His friend had his arms folded and was gazing down at him, seemingly waiting for an answer. Finally Gar decided to give his friend what he wanted.

"You remember how I said I bounced from foster home to foster home after getting back from Africa?"

"Yep," Victor replied as he too sat on the futon. "Why?"

"You remember how I said that my parents' crooked lawyer tried to adopt me so that he could get a hold of the money I get to inherit?"

"Uh huh. That Galtry guy."

"Well that guy back at the museum, he's used to be a lawyer. He and Galtry were friends back when I was living with him, even though Galtry was being investigated. Then the guy was forced to quit his job not long after the investigation started, and it's one of the main reasons it took so long."

"That sucks."

"It isn't even the worst part. That guy at the museum, he's a criminal himself now; and I'm guessing the men he had with him are thugs, too. I have no idea why he's not in jail right now."

"Lawyer turned crook responsible for you having to stay in the System longer," Victor observed. "And he knows you personally. Yuck."

"Yuck is right."

"So who's the other guy?"

"Huh?"

"Back at the museum, when he said he saw your father you asked him which one. If one's Galtry then who's the other?"

Garfield sighed. He was hoping Vic would have missed that part.

"Well, like I said, I sorta grew up in Social Services in Gotham, and Gotham has a lot of bad people in it, and the System sucks. I wound up once with another unsavory-type dude. He was real nice to me n'all, on account a how he said he knew what it was like to be picked on as a kid for being different. But the guy was a career criminal and definitely had a few screws loose."

"That really sucks, man," Victor said sincerely. "And that crooked ex-lawyer guy knew this _other_ winner of yours?"

Garfield snorted a laugh. "They met when they were both incarcerated, but you know Gotham. Blackgate practically has a revolving door for criminals to get back on the streets, and Arkham's even worse. I think they may have worked together when they were both out at the same time, but I'm not sure. I was in another home by then. Still, stories get told. Rumors spread. Inmates talk about their old lives, their families, stuff like that."

"So our ex-lawyer friend found out that he knew his cellmate's son as being the ex-foster son of some _other_ criminal, an old friend of his from back when he was still a lawyer?"

"Pretty much," Garfield said with a shrug. "The sad thing is that, if he had managed to stay a lawyer for a bit longer, he would have uncovered Galtry's dirty secrets and brought the dude down, even though they were friends. But shit happened and he stopped being a lawyer, and when that happened the investigation got sidetracked and I got the short end of it."

"Damn, man. I don't know what to say…"

"You don't have to say anything, dude. It's over and done with. I'm eighteen now, so the System can't touch me, and my inheritance is gonna be waiting for me when I turn twenty-one. My last foster parents are cool with me living with them while I'm in college even though they didn't have to. Galtry's pounding out license plates at some medium security prison upstate somewhere and the nut-job hasn't tried to contact me in over a year."

"But what about that ex-lawyer, dawg? He knows you."

"Oh, him. I wouldn't worry too much, dude. He'll commit a crime sooner or later; then he'll be caught again and shipped back to Gotham."

"Man, I don't understand how you can be so calm about all of it."

"Dude, did you _see_ me at the museum? I wasn't exactly 'calm'."

Victor laughed in spite of himself. "But still… and here I thought having a second cousin go to jail for tax evasion was a bad thing."

"They nabbed Galtry for fraud, dude. That's almost the same thing."

"So I guess your heart wasn't in the videogames because the guy at the museum reminded you of just how sucky your childhood was—no offense."

Garfield laughed. "None taken. And yeah, I guess I was just… thinking about that past n'stuff."

"It's cool, man."

"Well, thanks for listening Vic. I should probably fly home and start on that paper." Garfield stood from the futon at last and walked over towards the windows.

"No problem, dawg. Watch out for hawks."

"Heh, then I'll just turn into pterodactyl."

"Aw man, you gotta give me a demo some time. I'd _love_ to see you do that."

Garfield smiled and opened a window.

"Any animal you can name dude. But the peregrine falcon is the fastest bird in the sky, so…" And Garfield transformed into a falcon, fluttered a few times and chirped once in good bye before flying out the window and back towards Long Island and his dorm room.

* * *

**Later that evening  
Gotham**

"Master Bruce? A package has just arrived for you. Same-day business mail."

"Not now Alfred," Bruce—or rather, _Batman_ replied. He was down in the cave at the Bat-computer, working on tracking down Two-Face.

"Actually sir, I do not think this particular package should wait."

Batman scowled a little deeper than usual but stood from his computer anyway. "Bring it over to the workstation," he directed.

Alfred brought the package over and put it on the workstation countertop. Batman looked the package over, his eyes narrowing to slits when he saw the return address:

_Your friendly neighborhood fear expert, making all your nightmares come true. _

"This wasn't posted in Gotham…" Batman noted. "It was mailed from New York City, see? Look at the post office stamp."

"I thought that Mr. Crane was still incarcerated in Arkham."

"He is, Alfred. So unless he has a larger outside network than ever before…"

"Then this package is not from him."

"I'm going to screen it anyway, just to be sure."

"A wise idea, sir."

Batman spent the next hour examining the package, using X-rays, a Geiger counter, infra-red and ultraviolet sensors, electro-magnetic frequency descramblers, and his own personalized battery of tests designed to identify and neutralize such things as fear toxin and Smilex gas. Finally he deemed the package safe to open.

Even still, he told Alfred to wait for him outside the cave.

With painstaking care, Batman removed the packing tape and pulled back the box cover. No explosions happened, no projectiles were launched, and no gas was released. Batman set the box top carefully aside and reached a gloved hand cautiously but deliberately inside. A smaller package was contained therein, wrapped in tissue paper. He pulled this out and set it on the countertop.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred's voice sounded over the intercom.

"Nothing yet," Batman replied, referring to events untoward.

"May I inquire as to what's in the package sir?"

"A small bundle, wrapped in tissue paper. Stand by."

Slowly, carefully, Batman peeled away the tissue paper layers to reveal what was concealed within.

Through the intercom, Alfred heard Bruce's gasp.

"Are you all right, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked, concerned.

When Bruce didn't answer Alfred decided to head back to the cave to see for himself.

"It's not real blood," was the first thing that Batman said to him.

"Sir?"

Then Alfred came close enough to see what Batman was referring to. "Oh my…"

"It's not real blood," Batman repeated. "The texture is wrong. So is the scent."

Alfred bent over and gave the not-real-blood a critical eye. "If I may, sir, I do believe that is stage blood, the kind used by actors."

Batman merely nodded. He was too busy holding Batgirl's costume up to the light, staring at the bright red stain covering the chest and the small hole in the center of the Bat-logo.

"That's not a bullet hole, either," he said at length. "There's no charring of the edges, no melting of nearby fibers." He then put the costume down and slid the relevant section under a microscope. "From the fraying of the threads it looks like the work of an exact-o knife, though whoever cut the hole knew exactly how big a thirty-eight caliber bullet is."

"What's this?" Alfred asked suddenly.

Batman turned and saw the butler pointing towards the floor. "It's an envelope," he replied.

"Indeed," Alfred answered dryly.

Batman bent down and picked it up with his gloved hands and brought it over to the workstation. The envelope read:

_Mr. Wayne, please take the necessary steps to ensure that this package is delivered to Batman._

"It must have fallen out of the folds of the costume…"

"Are you going to open it, sir?"

Batman frowned again. "Wait over by the computer, Alfred," he directed, knowing that it would be futile to order the butler upstairs again given recent developments. Then with Alfred safely out of the way, Batman took a small knife and gingerly cut the envelope open, ever mindful of the possibilities of an aerosol release. When nothing happened, Batman slid the letter out of the envelope and carefully unfolded it.

Alfred saw Batman tense from across the room. Then he watched as Batman crushed the letter in his hand and threw it down. This was followed by an the swipe an angry hand across the countertop that sent the box, tissue paper, Batgirl costume, and microscope crashing to the floor.

"Master Bruce?"

Batman ignored him. Alfred watched as he stormed over to the Batmobile, pressing the button to release the hatch as he went. It was fully open just in time for Batman to jump into the car. A second later and the engine fired up. Another second and the Batmobile went screeching out of the cave into the Gotham night.

Alfred sighed tiredly, watching after where the Batmobile had vanished for several long moments. Then he made his way over to the workstation and began picking up the things that Batman had knocked to the ground. He put the tissue paper back in the box and set that aside. The Batgirl costume he folded and put on the counter. With chagrin he noted that he would need to fetch the broom in order to clean up the microscope.

Lastly, Alfred picked up the crumpled note. When he read its contents he instantly knew what had produced such a violent reaction in the Batman.

_Will you fire your new partner if she gets shot too?_

"… Good heavens."

* * *

AN- It's canon that Cyborg went to New York after he recovered from the accident. Specifically he went to Hell's Kitchen before being recruited by Raven into the New Teen Titans. However, Victor isn't exactly poor, even though he wants to make it on his own without daddy's help. Also, he's rather paranoid about people stealing his things, such as the equipment that he needs to keep around in order to live (battery chargers, etc). Therefore we've decided to put him in a slightly better neighborhood. 


	11. Setting the board

**Friday/Saturday, midnight**

Gar Logan spent most of the evening sitting at his computer, trying to concentrate on his paper. At first, he thought that the lunacy of the assignment was the reason that he couldn't seem to focus. Then he thought that it was because he would _soooo_ much rather play videogames than do homework. As the minutes ticked to hours, and the cursor blinked tauntingly at him from the blank screen in front of him, Gar eventually gave up and allowed himself to dwell on the _real_ reason he couldn't concentrate.

Harvey Dent was in town.

Harvey Dent was in New York, surrounded by hired thugs, and for whatever reason decided to take a stroll through the Metropolitan Museum. For some reason, Gar seriously doubted that the villain wanted to add a little culture to his life.

Gar was now sprawled on his bed, unable to sleep. The same thing that kept him from focusing on his paper was now keeping him from turning his mind off and sleeping. Harvey Dent was planning something big, and the cops didn't even know where he was.

That wasn't a good thing.

No, no, nononononono that was _not_ a good thing.

Where Harvey goes, dead bodies usually follow. Either his own goons, innocent bystanders, overbold security guards, the new District Attorney picking up his custody case…

Gar spent a good part of his post-Africa childhood in Gotham. He knew very well what Harvey Dent was capable of.

Now Harvey was here and not a soul knew about it, except him.

Finally Gar gave up on the concept of sleep. He needed to think—clear his head, before he could get anything done. He got out of bed and walked over to the window. A few hours of flying should make everything clearer.

It always did.

* * *

**Saturday, before dawn**

It was nearing four a.m. Only another hour or so until dawn.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Everything was still dark. Not a trace of false-dawn.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Everything was quiet, peaceful. Still.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

So many people in this building, all of them sound asleep. Easy to filer out. Nothing more than psychic white noise.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

After nearly eight hours of nonstop meditation—after she got back from class at eight and right up through this moment, Raven felt the psychic pulse of everyone around her. She drifted over their sea of dreams, caught on invisible winds that held her aloft. Above the din. Wrapped in mind-fog and invisible.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Here in her dorm room, and spread thin across the entire building, on every floor, in every hallway, every common area, and across every threshold to the outside world, Raven sat in quiet, peaceful meditation. Waiting, watching, passively anticipating.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Yet after nearly eight hours of nonstop meditation, Raven was beginning to fade. The concentration level was demanding, and after a long day… even meditation has its biological limits.

_Azarath……… Metrion……… Xinthos………_

Eight hours and not so much as a thought, a presence, a shadow within shadows. The one presence she sought had yet to register. The one footprint in her psychic vision that she had been looking for all these hours never materialized. Now, Raven found that she didn't have the stamina to continue.

_Azarath………_

Slowly the fog dissipated. The sleeping flower bloomed and dawn broke through like a tear in the lining of the psychic sky.

_Metrion………_

The sea beneath her evaporated away. The invisible currents no longer lent wind to her sails. Raven drifted down, in the growing light, and felt the softness of her mattress when her legs touched down. Ordinary sounds from the outside world began to register again.

_Xinthos……………_

Exhausted, Raven opened her eyes at last. Then with a sigh she unfolded her legs, wincing slightly as the muscles protested. Then she yawned, and prepared to give in to her body's cries for sleep.

She does not. do. worry. This Raven told herself repeatedly as she prepared for meditation. However, she does do curiosity, and right now she was _very_ curious to know where Dick Grayson was, and why he didn't come back to his room—or even the dormitory itself, at all tonight. In fact, she was damn curious to know where he's been _all week_! She had been expecting him to ask her for help studying for his finals, but they were _tomorrow_ and he still hasn't contacted her. On top of that, Garfield and Victor haven't seen him either, and while she highly doubted that he would take up valuable study time to play videogames, it was still odd that he hasn't even seen them for, say, lunch or dinner in the café. Then of course there was his friend Barbara from Gotham who seemed very worried about _something_, and whatever that something was it had Dick's name all over it.

Very curious indeed.

As Raven pulled the covers up to her chin and rolled over, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, she had to remind herself _again_ that she does _NOT do worry!_

* * *

Dick Grayson was beat. It was nearly four thirty, and he hadn't even been back to his room yet since leaving for the night's activities around five. That added up to over six hours of undercover work and nearly five in the Robin suit: eleven grueling yet productive hours of vigilantism, and as he struggled to keep from falling asleep on his feet in the elevator, Dick was glad they were over.

He had gotten out of college writing (which was really just a rehash of everything they tried to teach him over the summer, though the emphasis this time was on form rather than function) and came back to the dorm. He heated up a TV dinner for a quick meal while attempting to study criminology. Unfortunately he didn't have much time to eat, since he wanted to get to the museum before closing. Shortly thereafter, Dick was packing the Robin suit in his school bag. Then he began rummaging through his wardrobe. He changed into black cargo pants and his grungiest grunge tee shirt. The Robin boots completed the ensemble, but the pants hung so low and baggy that you couldn't tell unless he rolled them up. He also grabbed a different wallet, wherein every piece of identifying information listed him as one 'Robbie Malone,' his oldest and most trusted alias. Then he'd thrown on his oversized trench coat, grabbed a New York Yankees baseball cap, and headed for the door.

Dick drove east all the way into Flushing. The drive was hectic, to say the least, but at least he was going against the flow of rush hour traffic. Dick left his car in the subway parking lot after having changed over the license plate and secured his backpack in the hidden trunk compartment. 'Robbie' was sitting in a subway car studying criminology flashcards by six p.m.

The museum had changed its layout slightly in preparation for the new exhibit. Dick was thankful that the local authorities took Robin's hunch seriously, because he noticed quite a few out-of-uniform police officers trying to look inconspicuous at key points throughout the museum. Also, all the security cameras appeared to be functional (a far cry from anything in Gotham), and he was fairly certain that some of them were brand new.

Dick wandered the museum, picking up an exhibit map and seemingly meandering his way around. While he _did_ grant himself a five-minute break to actually read the plaques for the Egyptian artifacts, mostly he was concerned with making a mental map of every possible entrance and exit from the museum and the individual exhibit halls. As the museum kicked everyone out for closing, Dick was sure that Harvey would come in through the loading entrance on the north side. It was fairly common for trucks to make after-hours pickups and deliveries—changing over the exhibits, stocking the cafeteria, gift shop, custodial supplies, etc. Dick would have bet his last dollar that Harvey was counting on no one noticing an unscheduled box truck idling by the garage door.

His reconnaissance mission successful, Dick made it back to his car around ten thirty, and _Robin_ was five minutes early for his rendezvous with Special Agent Hernandez at eleven thirty. Hernandez confirmed that the NYPD was on alert and that museum security had been doubled. He was sure that if Two-Face tried anything, the local law enforcement could handle it.

Robin succeeded in keeping a straight face. The NYPD has never had to deal with Two-Face before, and if the GCPD can't handle him…

By midnight, Dick was parked in the Red Bird, still fully in costume, listening to the police scanner with the car's modified radio and studying for his exams through the Starlite night-vision lenses in his mask.

Thankfully no police emergencies occurred.

Dick made his way back to campus around four, lamenting how he felt more tired after four hours of studying than after eight hours of patrolling on jump lines. Now, as the door to his dorm room was in sight, Dick didn't think he'd ever been so grateful to be here in his life.

Sleep had rarely looked as appealing as when he keyed himself into his room and locked it behind him. He barely even had the presence of mind to stash his costume before passing out on his bed. However, sleeping in Kevlar-nomex weave with steel plating would have _sucked_ come morning. Mostly on autopilot, Dick took his mask out of the pocket of his oversized trench coat and tossed it onto his bed. Then he hung the trench in the closet before removing the false paneling that kept his costume hidden. He stripped out of the costume, grabbed the mask, and hid everything away. Too tired to even think about showering, Dick hastily pulled on a pair of clean boxers before collapsing on top of his bed. He was asleep before his head fully hit the pillow.

* * *

Gar was in peregrine falcon form, soaring high above the clouds. Try as he might, no amount of carefree flying could fully distract him from the moral dilemma at hand. Should he do what his head screamed, which was absolutely nothing, so as to not start down the slippery slope at whose bottom rested the ashes of his former life; or should he do what his gut—and his conscience, was screaming at him to do, which was to warn the authorities that Two-Face was in New York. Unfortunately with that route, however, they would have to question where he got that information, and if he told the truth, they would most certainly ask him how he was able to recognize Dent in his mask and disguise. Gar knew that he wasn't a very effective liar, and the truth of the matter was that he really didn't want to spell it out for everyone about his relationship to the former Gotham district attorney. Aside from the painful memories dredged up—the custody battle and its convoluted twists, turns, and major stalls as it passed through the hands of four separate lawyers, Gar was none too comfortable with earning the attention of the law. Too much of his past centered around sordid and people and events, and Gar knew well enough to understand what circumstantial evidence and guilt by association meant.

Besides, some of things were so painful that he had to keep them private.

And so the dilemma…

Surprisingly enough, just as Gar was about to lose hope, swallow his pride, and fly towards the nearest NYPD precinct, his answer seemed to drop right out of the sky.

Well, more like from a high rooftop to the street below. Using a decel cable.

With newfound hope Gar pulled into a swan dive. He'd seen on Tabloid Television that it was rumored Robin was in New York, and here was proof!

Well, proof enough.

As soon as he was close enough, falcon-Gar let out an ear-piercing shriek. Barbara Gordon, wearing the spare Batgirl costume she keeps in a hidden compartment in her car at all times and currently winding down her unsuccessful search for Dick Grayson in a Robin suit (with a few choice words to say to him if her hunch was correct), startled at the sound of the cry. She whirled around just in time to see a green falcon swoop out of the sky and transform right before her eyes into a small green human who landed gracefully on his feet.

Garfield Logan!

Two batarangs were held at the ready, but Batgirl held back and eyed the teenager skeptically.

"You're probably here looking for Two-Face, right?" Gar asked, coming straight to the point and trying his best not to be distracted by the gorgeous vigilante in black spandex.

Batgirl's eyes narrowed in response.

"Yo, you're Batgirl, right? Robin's girlfriend? You guys _have_ to be here looking for Two-Face."

Barbara seethed at his words. "What of it, Logan?"

"Hey! How did you—No! Don't tell me, IMDb, right? _Everybody _knows me!"

Barbara doesn't have the training; otherwise she would have resisted the urge to arch an eyebrow beneath the cowl.

"Well look, Batgirl, Two-Face is in the city. At the Metropolitan Museum. I have no idea what he's up to, but it _can't_ be good. You guys have to stop him!"

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because I saw him! Him and his goons."

"You saw Two-Face, strolling through the Met like any other normal citizen?" Barbara couldn't help but disbelieve the story.

"Yeah!" Gar insisted. "He was wearing a mask though—a pretty good one that covered nearly his whole face, and a wide hat pulled down low."

"Then how did you recognize him?"

Gar's heart jumped into his throat. How could he answer that without lying to a protégé of the world's best detective?

"I didn't," he said as truthfully as possible. "He recognized me. Tork, ya know? He stopped to talk to me, and I got a good look at his masked face. If you know who I am then you _know_ I've lived in Gotham. I saw him flipping his coin." Gar pantomimed the flipping motion with his thumb for effect. He hoped to God that Batgirl believed him. If she did, then no doubt she would report back to Batman, and then the Dark Knight would be tracking Two-Face. It was sort of his job, after all, and he had a better shot than the cops did. That's why he's Batman.

Not to mention the lack of public probing into his past and private life. After all, the Bat-clan should know a thing or two about wanting to keep secrets and remain anonymous.

"We'll look into it," Batgirl answered after a tense moment. Gar could have sagged to the ground in relief. Then without another word, Batgirl turned and fired a jump line. It caught on some unseen rooftop and she swung away into the night.

His conscience clear, Garfield looked around to be sure no one was watching. Then he jumped into the air and transformed back into a falcon, finally now feeling tired enough to possibly sleep.

* * *

**Breakfast Time**

Garfield awoke feeling only slightly better for having slept. Nightmares had plagued him since the moment he fell asleep at five until finally waking him permanently around nine. Then, realizing there was nothing else for it, Gar got dressed and decided to head down to breakfast. A nice, strong cup of hot cocoa would help him to forget the past night's turmoil, along with a heaping plate of waffles. Yes, waffles would make everything better.

Personally, Gar was ashamed of himself. The dreams hadn't been that vivid in _years_. Finally, when he thought he had moved passed it all, there was 'daddy' in his dreams again, promising that unconditional love and loyalty can help keep all the bad monsters away. The dream always ends the same way: with 'daddy' turning into the worst monster of all.

Gar knew that it was all Two-Face's fault. He just _had_ to come along and dredge up old memories.

All through breakfast, Gar couldn't stop dwelling on it. He tried to tell himself that his conscience was clear. After all, he told Batgirl what he knew. That should mean that she, Batman, and Robin would be on hand to deal with Two-Face and send him packing back to Arkham.

What else could he do, right? He's already informed the important people, the people who are in positions to actually do something about it. What else is there?

It's not like _he_, who knows the way that Two-Face works, who knows what kind of trouble he can unleash on a city, can do anything about it. It's not like Gar Logan, who has the ability to transform into any animal you could imagine at whim, can do anything to stop a villain that he has a personal grudge or two against.

Right?

_Damn._

Gar left the café and went back to the privacy of his room. Once there he opened a window, transformed into a dragonfly, flew up and away to the roof, ducked out of sight, and turned into a falcon. Then he turned in the direction of Manhattan, cursing Two-Face all the way.

He found the Metropolitan Museum opened when he got there. Not that it would have mattered, though. He flew into a cloud and changed into a small black (green) fly. He flew down to the museum and through an open window. From there he headed for the main lobby. It was as good a place as any to wait for Two-Face to show.

Gar landed on one of the lattice roof supports and began to lackadaisically watch the crowd, waiting for the villain to make his move.

* * *

Victor Stone was annoyed.

Well, maybe a bit more 'concerned' than annoyed, but still, his titanium feathers were ruffled. Gar was supposed to sign onto instant messenger last night. They were supposed to chat while working on their lab reports for chemistry. At first Vic thought that Gar didn't want the distraction while he worked on his culture essay about the museum, but as the hours stretched past midnight, Vic finally gave up and went to recharge. He left the instant messenger logged in so that Gar could ping him in the morning with a 'sorry I ditched you last night' message.

When he woke up this morning he saw that no such message had been sent.

Since he wanted to work on some extra credit in one of the physics labs this weekend anyway, Vic decided that there was no better day than today. He grabbed the subway, then a bus, and finally completed the mile walk from the bus stop to campus around ten. He had phoned Gar's room, but didn't get an answer. It was easiest to assume that his friend was still sleeping—who could blame him on a Saturday? So Vic shrugged it off and went to the lab to begin his extra credit work.

* * *

**Noon**

Dick rolled over and groggily looked at the clock. He started to full alertness as soon as he read the time, but then his heart rate calmed considerably when he remembered that it was Saturday. He hadn't slept through any classes.

The downside was, of course, that this was Saturday. The second day of the Egyptian twins exhibit at the museum, and the second anniversary of the last time he and Batman busted Harvey Dent. Robin would be at the museum tonight, preparing for the eventuality of Two-Face's attempted heist. Idly he wondered if it would come two hours after closing, or a bit later at two a.m. Two a.m. was the more likely, but either was a possibility, and Robin would have to be prepared. The museum closed at nine, and Robin resolved to be there by then, just in case. Poor planning would _not_ cause him to miss his chance to get Two-Face.

Yet right now it was only noon. Dick had just woken up from what was probably the best night's sleep he had gotten all week, and he didn't have anything to do as Robin for quite a few hours. That left him with the entire afternoon with which to study, and Dick fully intended to do just that. He planned on grabbing some brunch in the café and then hunting down Raven (odds are that she'd either be in her room or in the library). Hopefully her offer was still good for study help: he needed someone to quiz him on the information ensure that all that reading was sticking in his brain.

But first, a shower.

**

* * *

**

Now that it was noon, and since he had reached a decent stopping point in his experiment, Victor decided that it was time for lunch. Before grabbing food, however, he decided to swing by the dorms—there were always people going in and out that would hold the door for him like he belonged there (though the giant security lapse hadn't yet crossed his mind). Perhaps Gar would answer better to a knock rather than a phone call? If not, then surely Raven was around. He got the distinct impression that she didn't have much of a social life.

Just as expected, some random student was exiting the dorm just as Victor approached the stairs. He jogged apace to be able to reach the door before it closed and locked itself, and so easily came to stand inside the supposedly secure dormitory. From there, he bypassed the elevator and took the stairs, heading for Garfield's floor.

When he reached Garfield's room there was no answer, and he had made sure to knock extra hard, too, incase his friend was a sound sleeper. It brought his neighbors to their doors, and he apologized with a shrug and a bashful grin, but no Gar.

Victor tried to tell himself that Gar had already left, probably for lunch. On any other day, he might even have believed himself. However, he couldn't get what happened yesterday out of his head. As much as he tried to hide it, Gar had been seriously freaked by the encounter in the museum. When he finally heard an explanation why, Vic could hardly blame him. Yet even still, something about that guy at the museum—what did Gar call him? An ex-lawyer turned criminal? Well, something about the guy didn't set right with Victor, either, and it wasn't the simple fact that his friend has a known criminal in his past, either. Something in the way he looked… The glassy quality to his eyes, the plastic-y look to his grin that didn't show teeth, the almost hollow sound of his voice and the size of the brim of his hat.

Something just felt off about the guy—beyond what Garfield had told him. Victor cursed himself for having been too irritated at the time to bother to pay close attention. Now his regret for that oversight had morphed into what he tried to tell himself was premature concern for his friend. After all, he only saw him last night, and it was barely lunchtime.

Forcing himself to shrug it off, Victor left Gar's doorstep and headed back towards the staircase.

* * *

Raven rolled over in bed, bleary-eyed, blinking at the light that escaped her heavy curtains to fall across her face in a slender stream.

"Nngggh…" She shifted, stretched, and finally sat up. When she glanced at her clock she groaned again and allowed herself to flop back down on her back. Meditating as she did right before sleep can produce some… interesting consequences the following morning. Maybe sometime later she would learn to equate the feeling with the cerebral part of a hangover, but until she actually gains that particular experience she has no name with which to label the overly harsh way light and sound register in her brain, the annoying twinge of headache, and the overall desire to simply roll over and die.

Unfortunately, she knew that she wouldn't be able to fulfill that wish. The only way she knew to make herself feel better was to self-medicate. Back home, that meant a long, hot bath and a bottomless cup of herbal tea. Now… Well, an overly large cup of tea would have to suffice, and she knew exactly where to get it.

Raven dressed in casual, loose-fitting clothes and ran a brush through her short hair. Finally she grabbed her keys and her wallet and shoved them into her pockets. She left the room and locked the door behind her.

She paused right outside her door.

Dick's room was right across from her.

With a mental sigh, Raven closed her eyes and concentrated… concentrated…

Concentrated…

No, Dick wasn't in his room.

A physical sigh and Raven opened her eyes. Of course it _was_ possible that he had come back early this morning after she had stopped 'watching' and then left before she woke up. It was possible…

Raven blinked slowly, exhausted. Her mental energies weren't quite replenished yet from last night's exertion. She wasn't used to such focused meditation. She needed breakfast. She needed tea. She needed—for the elevator to hurry up already.

The decent nearly flipped her stomach. Mercifully she was the only one in the elevator.

The doors dinged open on the ground floor and when Raven stepped across the threshold into the hallway—

"Raven!"— She nearly jumped out of her skin.

Raven grit her teeth and winced, but recovered quickly. "… Victor."

Victor Stone had just finished descending the stairs. He smiled at her and waved slightly as he jogged to come to stand beside her. Raven saw that he easily fell into step with her as she headed for the front door. She ignored him.

"Uh, you wouldn't by any chance have seen Gar recently?" Victor asked her.

"No," she deadpanned. Then a thought gave her sudden pause. "Have you seen Dick?"

"Nope. Not for days."

Raven didn't say anything else and the reached the front door in silence.

"Heh. The two of them are probably off somewhere without us, having fun," Victor mused dejectedly.

Raven spared him a sideways glance. "… Perhaps."

"Uh… I was on my way to the café for some lunch."

"You do that."

They reached the end of the walkway and Raven turned left, away from the café.

"Uh… Yeah…" Victor watched her for a moment; then turned right. "I'll… yeah." Victor mentally shrugged and continued on his way to the café.

* * *

Dick felt worlds better after his shower. Now properly attired to face the day, Dick grabbed his backpack and shoved his psychology and criminology textbooks and notebooks into it. He slipped his feet into laced sneakers, pocketed his keys, shouldered the backpack, and left the room.

First he knocked on Raven's door. After a few moments and another knock he surmised that she had already left for whatever business she had that day. If he wanted her help studying he would have to track her down later; but first, some breakfast.

Well, really lunch, but who's counting?

Dick found his way to the café and carded his way in. There was a handful of students spread around the numerous tables, but alas, no Raven. Perhaps she went to the library?

Before Dick could really contemplate the matter—actually, before he had even fully entered the dining area, he heard someone calling his name.

"Yo! Grayson!"

Dick turned and saw Victor Stone waving at him and beckoning him over. Dick saw that Victor had an entire table to himself, and with a shrug, decided to join him.

"Hey, dawg. We thought maybe your bed had swallowed you whole, or something."

"Close," Dick answered as he dropped his backpack off. "Psych. And criminology." And the FBI, and Batgirl, and Two-Face…

"Rough, man."

"Yeah. But worth it."

"Well, they just switched over the grills. You missed the pancakes, but the burgers are nice and hot."

"Right…"

Dick left to find something decent—er, _edible_, and made a mental note that he really needed to go shopping later. He came back with a tray of… something, a few minutes later.

"Uh… what is that?" Victor asked skeptically.

"Dead, cooked, and hopefully edible."

"You sure about that?"

Dick poked at it with his fork. "… No."

"That's one of the main reasons why I opted to live off campus. They only times I eat that slop is when I've got no other choice."

"Like now?"

"Well…"

Dick laughed and Victor shook his head.

"Actually, I was supposed to be getting pizza with Gar, but he bailed on me. I'm pretty sure he forgot. I was just kinda biding my time here in case he stopped by."

"Gar passing up a pizza run?" Dick asked, more amused than shocked.

"Yeah man. It's weird. We went to the museum yesterday—he had this project to do for that pop-culture class of his and I tagged along for the heck of it. Well after the museum we were hanging at my apartment playing videogames, but then he left around dinnertime to go work on his project. He was supposed to IM me when he had at least a good part of it done, cuz then we were gonna tag-team on our lab reports. 'Cept he didn't IM me. Not last night, and not this morning. He wasn't even in his room when I stopped by this morning."

"Maybe he found someone cuter to study anatomy with," Dick offered with a shrug.

"Heh, probably."

Conversation lapsed into silence as Dick ate his… 'lunch.' Victor slurped the rest of his soda and then got up to dispose of his trash. When he sat down again, he seemed to be waiting patiently enough for Dick to finish. However, he just happened to be waiting for the world's second best detective. Dick noticed as Victor shifted in his seat a few times, absent-mindedly tapped his fingers on the table… stopped… started again.

"Something on your mind?" he asked when he couldn't take much more of it.

"Uh… yeah. Um… You and Gar are like, good friends right?"

"Yeah," Dick answered guardedly. "Why?"

"Did he ever talk much about his past? You know, stuff about when he was a kid in Gotham?"

"Not much," Dick confessed carefully. He knew all about Gar's childhood in Gotham, but not from Gar. "He never seemed comfortable talking about it."

"Damn."

"What is it?"

"Well, the thing is, we ran into somebody at the museum. And I mean _literally_. Guy just came up outta nowhere. Anyway, Gar was seriously weirded out by it. When I asked him later what it was all about, he told me that the guy used to be his lawyer, back when he was going through all that custody shit. He said that the guy had since been dis-barred or something, and that he was a crook nowadays, but I woulda thought so anyways. You should have seen the cheap suits they were wearing. But my point is, I haven't seen Gar since."

"And you're sure he hasn't found a cute little blond somewhere?" Dick asked, his features overly calm and his voice neutral, but his inner Bat was already taking over. Every mental alarm bell he had was going off right now. He knew very well that Garfield's first custody lawyer was Harvey Dent, and if what Vic said was true…

"Man, usually I would think so, but Gar was seriously power-freaked by this dude and—no offense, Gar painted him as Gotham scum, and there isn't any scum in the world worse than Gotham scum."

"Well sadly I'll have to agree with you there," said Dick, subconsciously doing his best 'clueless Bruce Wayne' imitation; standard practice when having to downplay and deflect things that relate directly to the 'night work.' "But don't you think you're worrying a bit too much? Last night was Friday night, and its only… one, Saturday afternoon."

Victor sighed. "Yeah… Yeah you're probably right."

"I'd take notice if he doesn't show up for class on Monday. Until then, just be glad for him and hope she has a sister."

This comment earned a laugh, and Dick smiled.

"Well I'd love to stay and chat about Gar's mating rituals…" He stood to go.

"Gonna hit the books?"

"And hope they don't hit back."

"Well good luck dawg."

"Heh, thanks." Now he turned to leave.

"Oh, hey Grayson?"

And he turned back around. "Yeah?"

"Raven's been looking for you."

Dick grinned sheepishly. "She's supposed to be helping me study. We keep missing each other though."

"Well if I see her I'll tell her you're not dead."

"Thanks."

Dick grinned and waved and left the café. He just found out he had a bit of daylight detective work to look into.

* * *

Raven sat in a dimly lit old-fashioned jazz café, sipping her fourth (free refills) cup of herbal tea and listening to some relatively decent open-mike poetry. The tea and the ambiance acted like the balm to her psyche that she had been desperately craving. Feeling much better, now Raven was curled up in one of the wing chairs for the audience members around the small platform stage, just soaking it all in because she enjoyed it. This place was her favorite off-campus hangout.

Yet as good as she felt being here, something was preventing her from fully enjoying herself. A nagging thought, a worry pricking at the back of her mind that encouraged her thoughts to stray from the poetry and onto other, more relevant things.

_Where in bloody Azarath was Dick Grayson?_

Garfield hasn't seen him. Victor hasn't seen him. That girl Barbara—who obviously came all this way to visit him, hasn't seen him, and _she_ was really worried about something, most likely him. She could understand that he would want to lay low for a while, to take as much time as possible to study for his exams, but this was bordering on excessive, even to _her_ reclusive standards.

Nearly a week later and Raven couldn't help it anymore. She was officially concerned.

For the umpteenth time, her eyes drifted over to the payphone in the corner. Finally, she got up and decided to appease her curiosity (and ease her conscience) a little. She fished around in her pockets for all the loose change she could find, and decided to place a call to the number she had googled a few days ago.

_Good afternoon, Stately Wayne Manor._

Raven recognized the soothing British accent as belonging to Dick's 'Alfred.' She knew she'd dialed the right number.

"Is Dick there?" she asked, cutting straight to the point.

_I'm afraid that the young master is presently away at University. May I take a message?_

Raven frowned. Well, Dick hadn't gone home…

"When you talk to him, could you tell him that his friends are worried about him?"

A brief silence on the other end.

_May I inquire as to the nature of your concern?_

Raven heard genuine concern in the old man's voice. She frowned, not having meant to upset him. "We haven't seen him for days, and I know for a fact that he didn't go back to the dorms last night."

A longer, seemingly tenser silence.

_As soon as I get a hold of him I will most certainly relay your message._

"Thank you."

Still frowning, Raven hung up the phone. It seemed rather obvious that Dick hasn't spoken to anyone at home for a while, either. Well, given that 'Alfred' was able to track Dick down when they were all out for pizza, she was fairly confident that'd he'd be able to find him now, most likely through the GPS in his cell phone. With a sigh, she hoped that the device didn't actually have to be on for such things to work. For the past week, it's been kicking over straight to voicemail.

* * *

Instead of heading to the library to look for Raven as he had originally planned, Dick walked briskly back to the dorms. Feeling too antsy to wait for the elevator, he took the stairs and jogged them two at a time until he reached his floor.

He keyed himself into his room and dumped the forgotten backpack on the bed. Then he went straight to his desk and opened the top drawer. He grabbed an Altoids tin and shook it once, but the sound was certainly not indicative of a handful of mints jouncing around. Dick flipped the lid back and grinned: generic lock picks and skeleton keys! Not the more serious ones he keeps in the Red Bird and in his utility belt, just good enough to prove that he's an ordinary teenaged boy with ordinary teenage compulsions.

Then suddenly he frowned. Dick Grayson can absolutely NOT afford to get caught picking locks around campus, not the day before his two final exams; not if he didn't want to get expelled.

The frown deepened into a scowl. Vic was concerned about Gar, and you didn't need to be the world's second best detective to figure that much out. Not only that, but the picture Victor painted shed enough light to give _Robin_ cause for concern. It shouldn't matter that Dick's life might be inconvenienced by it.

With an angry grunt Dick slapped the lid closed and chucked the tin back into the desk drawer and slammed it shut. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet and removed his student ID card. He fingered it gingerly, testing its resiliency. Gaining illegal entry into another student's dorm room by picking the lock with a card might look a bit better if caught than if he used real lock picks for the job. The dorm's room door locks were simple enough that it should be too hard to pick Gar's lock 'the poor man's way,' as he once heard Catwoman put it.

Card in hand, Dick walked determinedly down the hallway to Garfield's dorm room. He knocked a few times but got no reply. Dick waited a few moments to be sure the coast was clear before sliding the card between the door and the door jam. With one deft motion he had brought the card down onto the locking mechanism and shoved it back. The lock gave way with a hollow click and Dick grinned at his handiwork. He pocketed the card and opened Gar's door.

The effort was met with heavy resistance.

With a grunt, Dick shouldered his way into the room. When he looked at the floor, he saw that it was littered with generic dorm room debris: piles of clothes, candy wrappers, empty soda cans, and the like. Then he shoved the door closed again.

Standing in the center of the room, Dick surveyed his surroundings like a crime scene. The well lived-in look spoke of many things. The bed covers were rumpled—not slept in, but slept _on_, as though Gar hadn't wanted to bother. There were no flies buzzing the food remains yet, but the soda in the plastic cup on the desk had gone mostly but not completely flat, most likely left over from the night before. The clothes strewn about on the floor didn't discriminate in where they fell. As a matter of fact, it looked like at one point Gar had nearly emptied his closet as he searched for something. The clothes had been thrown haphazardly around, but a good chunk of them had landed in front of the door.

Dick pursed his lips, staring at that pile. It hadn't been disturbed until he himself entered the room. The door hit it heavily, knocking some articles out of the way and running over and dragging others. Testing a theory, Dick walked over and grabbed the door again. This time it swung much easier, since the obstructing pile of clothes had been scattered by the last time the door was opened.

As Dick pondered this, he suddenly felt a draft. Slowly his gaze drifted around to the only window in Garfield's room. It was wide open; the cheap Walmart-special curtains were ruffling slightly in the cooling autumn breeze.

Dick smirked. While all the tabloids claimed that it was true, he never really knew if he should believe it or not, but here was incontestable proof. Garfield Logan has the ability to transform into animals at will. Dick shook his head with a slight chuckle. Apparently Gar has been availing himself of the ability lately by leaving the dorm via his window. He must have turned into a bird, or some sort of flying insect—or a crawling one, or maybe a mammal like the flying squirrel that can glide—

Dick snorted another laugh. It really didn't matter _what_ Gar changed into. The point was that his green friend has been traveling to and from the dorms in animal form. Also, given the state of the room right now, Dick was fairly certain that Gar had left sometime last night. Judging from this evidence, Dick concluded that Gar came back from Victor's—either by door or window, and at some point poured himself a glass of soda, lied down for a while and tossed and turned—perhaps while studying? It would explain why he didn't get under the covers. Gar then left his room by window sometime later, most likely after he found whatever it was he was rummaging for.

Wherever he went though, he didn't speak to or rendezvous with Victor, as was the plan. Without preamble, Dick turned Gar's computer monitor on. The screen flicked to life and revealed that Gar was working on his essay for his culture class, though he hadn't gotten much farther than putting his name on the paper and giving it a title before it was abandoned. That fit with what Vic had told him, and Dick surmised that Gar had tried to work on the paper, as planned, but something came up that caused him to leave the paper unfinished. The monitor was turned off, so he didn't leave in a forced hurry (say, one where he was dragged off at gunpoint—as improbable as that sounds, but _Robin_ reminded himself that Two-Face might be entering into this equation).

No, the monitor was turned off, and the window was opened as wide as it could go. This suggested a deliberate action on Garfield's part. Why ever he left, he did so willingly and with purpose.

And he hasn't reported in, and has he come back since.

Dick turned off the monitor and ran a hand through his hair. He wouldn't put it passed Two-Face to try something—he recognized Gar, even risked exposure to talk to him. Who's to say a simple coin flip a few hours later hadn't led to this end result?

No one.

The same no one that couldn't prove it.

Dick sighed again. There wasn't enough evidence here to ease his worry, but there wasn't enough to add to it either. The clues could be pointing to something completely innocent (at least of Dent's involvement), or they could be indicative of something more insidious, and there was no way to really tell for sure.

Seeing nothing else for it, Dick relocked Gar's door and left the room. If Two-Face really was involved, then there was nothing he could do about it until tonight. Dick would simply 'interrogate' Dent after he took him down, and God help the villain if he's harmed his green friend in any way. Forcing himself not to worry, Dick went back to his own room. He had quite a bit of studying left to do.

* * *

**Early afternoon**

After lunch, Victor had decided not to return to his extra credit work just yet. He was in the mood to procrastinate, and so he went to the computer lab in the basement of the library instead. He wanted to check his email, to see if Garfield had sent him an apology email or something. Unfortunately, no such email had been sent.

Victor knew that his concern was silly, but right now in his life he had a grand total of two friendly acquaintances and one (and therefore best) friend. He was too used to (and bitter about) the only good things in his life being forcibly taken from him and he most definitely did not want that trend to continue.

Still in a procrastinating mood and unable to get his mind off of Garfield's disappearance, Victor pulled up the Internet Movie Database's website and searched for Gar's name. He reread his friend's filmography and then for shits and giggles clicked the biography link. Not much was listed, other than the fact that he was first recruited by a small television studio because of his unique talents. After _Space Trek_ was cancelled he's posed as animals in a few commercials but hasn't had any real acting work since then. Victor noted with a snort that the bio had been updated to include that Gar had earned his high school diploma and was now pursuing higher education in the veterinary sciences.

Then Victor got an idea. The IMDb listed Gar as being a native of Gotham…

Victor glanced around quickly to be sure that no one was watching. Seeing that the coast was clear, Vic snapped open his mechanical left thumb, revealing a USB plug in. This he inserted into its proper port and then clicked to recognize the new hardware when the prompt came up. Now plugged in, Victor used the positronic part of his brain to interface with the PC he was using. Then, using a capability inspired by tales of Superman's exploits against Brainiac, Vic mentally traveled through an open port and into the internet. Now Victor was literally surfing through the information superhighway, with the information he sloshed through scrolling in binary code quickly through the field of vision of his electronic eye—never once was any indication of his activities displayed on the computer monitor in front of him.

In this fashion Victor navigated his way into the Gotham school district's sealed records files. There he found Gar's school psychologist's and guidance counselor's records and evaluations of him. Vic didn't read these documents thoroughly—not intending to pry—but he did find within them notes on the status of the continuing custody battle between that snake Galtry, and the Daytons, who eventually won. From those notes he pulled four names—each one a Gotham district attorney who had been involved in Gar's case.

His task accomplished, Victor extracted himself from the internet and unplugged his thumb from the USB. With the digit firmly restored, Vic opened a new browser window and punched up google. He had four names to research.

Vic started with the DA who won the case for the Daytons. The DA was still serving, though now in Cleveland, and therefore didn't fit the profile of 'former lawyer turned criminal,' so Victor moved onto the next name on the list. The previous DA, one Aldrich Meany, it turns out was murdered by the villain known as Two-Face and so was immediately ruled out as well. The DA before _that_ was one Janice Porter, but Vic decided to research her anyway. _You never know…_ It turns out that she was murdered too, also by Two-Face.

"Guy must have a thing against lawyers…" Vic muttered as he googled the final name on the list, Harvey Dent.

"Oh… shit…"

* * *

Raven left the café around lunchtime and returned to campus. Once there, stopped by the library. She still had a few books before she reached the maximum checkout limit and didn't feel like going all the way back up to her room to retrieve her finished ones only to have to go all the way back across campus to the library and then back to her room again. She could return her finished books at another time.

She had made it to the library when, for the second time in as many days, someone exiting in a hurry nearly ran her over. For the second time is as many days, the flood of emotions coming from the person was enough to nearly make Raven—who had not been expecting it—go weak at the knees.

"Raven! _Please_ tell me you've seen Gar."

This time the culprit was Victor Stone. While his thoughts remained concealed in a boisterous sea of ones and zeros, his emotions rang out loud and clear. Raven half blinked, half twitched as she processed them. Victor was worried, almost frantically so… apparently about Garfield Logan.

"… Not since the last time you asked," she answered, her expression returning to the neutrality conveyed in her voice.

"Shit!" Victor exclaimed. "Shitshitshit!" The bubble of emotion pulsed again.

Raven blinked slowly. "Why do you ask?" she questioned, her voice bland as she refused to allow herself to be influenced by Victor's emotions.

"He may be in trouble," Victor replied seriously. "Big trouble."

Raven blinked again, slowly. Victor's emotions lent truth to his words. "What sort of trouble?" she asked, sounding curious but not concerned.

"_Big_ trouble," Victor reiterated, and Raven didn't have to be an empath to sense his mounting agitation. "Look if you see him, tell him then and there to call my cell, and then sit on him or something until I get there. Whatever you do Rae, don't let him out of your sight!" Victor's 'cell,' of course, was actually a highly advanced piece of communications technology built into his right forearm. Unless Vic removed the arm, he had it with him at all times.

Raven cocked her head slightly to one side, regarding him with seeming passivity. She sensed that his fear—for indeed that's what it was, was justified somehow. Perhaps it was because he himself believed it so strongly? Whatever the case, the realization gave her pause.

"Where will you be?" she asked him.

"First I'm going back to my apartment. I'm gonna go look for him, but I—ah, I need to pick up a few things first."

Raven barely nodded. "I'll keep an eye out for him," she informed him.

Victor barely managed a smile in return. "Thanks, Rae. I've gotta go." He didn't wait for her to answer. Instead he walked briskly past her and continued down the sidewalk, rounded the corner, and disappeared from sight.

Raven watched him go until he disappeared. She blinked again, momentarily considering the nickname Victor just gave her. Only her mother had ever called her that.

Those thoughts were quickly shoved aside, however. First Dick Grayson had gone missing, and now, Gar Logan. Raven released a mental sigh as she abandoned her mission to the library. Instead, she headed back to her dorm room. Unlike the welcomed obscurity of Dick's mind, Garfield's had unique and easily discernable psychic signature. His mind was an open book that heralded its secrets to the psychic world with all the subtlety of the Rose Bowl parade. Therefore it was conceivable that she could locate his mind through the astral plane—a possibility that she regretted not having in her search for Dick, which had made last night's stakeout necessary.

With a mental sigh, Raven abandoned her mission at the library and headed back to her room. If Garfield really was in as much trouble as Victor feared he was—and Raven would have sworn that he feared for Gar's very life, then perhaps she could use her unique talents to find her green… acquaintance, and if necessary, devise a way to help him. After all, it's not like she had anything better to do on a Saturday afternoon…

Raven reached her room and locked the door behind her, hoping not to be disturbed (by anyone other than Dick or Gar). She reclaimed her usual seat atop the bed and folded her legs beneath her in the lotus position. She stretched her arms once and rotated her shoulders before letting her hands fall into the customary position. Raven closed her eyes and took a few deep, calming, centering breaths, and began her next meditative mission.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…

* * *

_

AN- The bit about Harvey Dent killing his successors is canon. Janice Porter was killed in _Batman: Dark Victory_ (which incidentally also contains Dick Grayson's Robin origins story, though the two plot points are unrelated). Aldrich Meany was the DA that was changed into a judge of a different name in _Robin: Year One_.

AN2- For the purposes of this story: Harvey Dent was handling the investigation into Galtry which ran alongside the custody battle. Dent worked closely with the Daytons and the custody lawyers, trying to put Galtry away. Unfortunately, a rather large (canon) problem dealing with Gotham's organized crime monopolized more and more of Dent's time, so the Galtry matter was unresolved at the time of Dent's 'accident.' The custody case stalled, especially since Dent returned and sabotaged his old office and files. Of course it didn't help matters much that the new DA was focusing on the mob problems and a potential copycat serial killer and not chasing after Galtry, who was rather small potatoes comparatively, until Two-Face killed her and the investigation stalled _again_. Finally the next DA replacement settled into his new job and took up the case. He made quite a bit of progress, but alas Two-Face killed him and everything was delayed _yet again!_ The case finally resolved by the next DA, and Galtry was imprisoned and the Dayton's won custody of Garfield.


	12. Moving the pieces

**Mid Afternoon**

Dick Grayson sat on a bench along East Drive in Central Park, the Metropolitan Museum ahead of him and Cleopatra's Needle behind. He had his criminology notebook opened on his lap with his textbook opened underneath it. The bag at his feet held his psychology textbook and notebook. The Red Bird was parked in civilian form at the Museum with most of the Robin costume. The cape and the belt he'd hidden last night in an air vent on the roof. Dick had nothing to do now but wait, and while he waited, study.

Dick's nose was buried in the notebook as he tried to be sure that he had every single criminology vocabulary word memorized. He had just gotten to the section on the FBI's Crime Index when suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Instinctively his training took over, and in mere milliseconds his right hand balled into a fist and flew up and back over his shoulder. He heard more than felt the resounding SMACK when his knuckles connected with the flesh of someone who just learned the hard way not to sneak up on out of costume vigilantes studying in the park.

Dick cast his study materials hastily aside as he shot to his feet and spun around in a defensive stance, trying to learn the identity of the person who snuck up on him. As he peered over the back of the bench, the young man splayed flat on his back in a heap with the remnants of a fully laden hotdog now decorating his sweatshirt was probably the last person on Earth he expected to see.

"Wally!"

"Awwww man!" The crumpled form moaned as it shifted into a sitting position. "You owe me a Coney!"

"What are you doing here?" Dick asked, highly amused.

"Well I _was_ on my way back from Coney Island," Wally West, a.k.a. Kid Flash, answered from his spot on the ground. "What better way to spend a Saturday than eating all your favorite foods?"

"Wearing them, I guess?"

"Ha ha very funny. Are you gonna help me up or what?"

"Well I figured I'd just stand here and watch, but…" Dick obliged the young speedster. "Now, are you going to tell me why you tried to sneak up on me?"

"C'mon Robbie, if I was trying to sneak up on you, I would have."

"In your dreams, Twinkle Toes."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever you say. Look, gimme a minute?" And Wally suddenly streaked away. Dick shook his head and glanced at his watch. He watched the seconds tick by before—

WOOSH!

Wally reappeared, wearing a new sweatshirt.

"You're just lucky no one was home," he informed Dick. "I snuck into the laundry room and pilfered a new shirt."

Dick just shook his head. "But you look _so good_ in mustard yellow," he mock-protested.

"Hey that's canary yellow to you, pal," Wally retorted.

"I would know canary yellow when I saw it."

"Whatever, bird boy. Now, where's the nearest hotdog vendor?"

"Uh… A few blocks downtown of here I think. Why?"

"C'mon, Robbie," said Wally as he grabbed Dick by the arm. "I said you owed me a Coney, but a regular old hotdog will have to do."

"Can't you see I'm trying to study here?" Dick protested.

"Yeah, but you can do that later. It's Saturday ferchrissakes!"

Dick just sighed and rolled his eyes. "Let me get my things…"

"I'll get 'em."

Before Dick could blink, Wally was handing him his fully laden backpack.

"It's this way," Dick directed, and he led the way downtown through the park towards the nearest hotdog vendor. "Do you always go globetrotting for meals?"

"Well I decided I wanted real chowder for lunch," Wally explained, "so I ran to the Oyster House in Boston. Then I figured to top that off with a Pasty from Sault Ste Marie, but since Coney Island was so close I figured what the hey, and ran down for a dog to snack on along the way. I always run through the park when I'm in the City, and then I saw you sitting on a bench and I was wondering 'what's Dick doin' in Central Park?' so I figured I'd run over andaskyoubutthenyousluggedme—"

"You're doing it again, Wally," Dick interrupted the supersonic babble. Whenever Wally gets excited, he tends to speak at the same speed he runs at.

"Huhwhat?"

"You were speaking like the Tasmanian Devil again. What does… what you just said, mean to a normal person?"

Wally grinned. "Should we find a normal person and ask them?"

"Very funny."

"I thought so." Just then they came upon the hotdog vendor. "Two dogs, fully loaded, my good man," Wally ordered for them. "On my buddy's tab."

"You're just lucky I've got cash on me," Dick grumbled as he fished in his wallet.

"Uh, no offense Dick, but if you ever claim to be broke I'd have to call Barry and have him warn the League that Antithesis has raped your brain," Wally informed him.

Dick scowled at him as he waited for the vendor to make change. Thankfully the man barely spoke enough English to understand what 'hold the relish' means.

"Either that or old Brucie finally cut you off," Wally continued between bites after they walked away from the vendor.

Dick just ate his hotdog in silence, trying his very best to not snap at his best friend. However, Wally eventually picked up that something was amiss.

"Okay Dick, spill."

"Huh?"

"I'll admit that the first joke was Bat-glare worthy, but the second joke should have at least rated one of those patented Robbie comebacks. I know you; you only clam up when you got something on your mind. So spill."

It took a considerable amount of mental reserves on Dick's part to suppress the groan and force his eyes not to roll. Indeed, Wally knows him quite well, but he was hoping not to be put in the position of having to lie to his best friend. After all, if he told Wally about Two-Face and the museum, then the speedster would have insisted on sticking around to help, and Dick would have none of that. Harvey Dent is no George Harkness, and Dick already has enough to worry about without adding the safety of his exuberant and impulsive best friend into the mix. That and the upcoming fight with Two-Face was personal.

So was everything with Bruce.

"I was dumb enough to show off some of my detective skills in class," Dick settled on an explanation. "And now my professors think I'm some sort of prodigy or something. I'm taking two finals tomorrow, and if I pass them, I get credit for the classes and then get bumped into the next level, where I've got weeks worth of work to make up. If I fail, I'll let my professors down, but if I pass Bruce will kill me for being so careless with my identity."

Wally was silent for a few moments as the information soaked in. Then suddenly he burst out laughing. "Oh man, Robbie! Only YOU could get into a mess like that!"

"I'm glad my troubles amuse you," Dick said with emphasized dejection as Wally tried to get control of his laughter.

"I'm sorry, buddy," said Wally as he wiped a tear from his eye, "but that's just…" And he was lost to another laughing fit again.

"Would you quit it?" Dick snapped. "Jeez you sound like you've taken a dose of Smilex!"

Finally, after much effort, Wally managed to control himself.

"So, what subjects?" he managed to ask with only minimal giggling.

"Intro to Criminology and Intro to Psych."

"Criminology? Man, you shoulda called! Barry would so have run over here to help you study!"

"I didn't think of it," Dick deflected. The _last_ thing he wanted was stray members of the Justice League coming to call, especially now.

"Heh, some detective you are."

"Do you wanna end up on your ass again?"

"Hey you can't hit what you can't catch."

"Your sweatshirt says differently."

Wally's mature comeback to that was to pointedly stick his tongue out at Dick.

"Anyway," Dick segued as they made it back to the bench he had commandeered earlier. "I really have to get back to the books."

"Yeah, man, I hear that," Wally replied in sympathy. "Just cuz I can read at super speeds that doesn't mean I learn that way."

"Yeah I know."

Once again, Wally did the mature thing and gave Dick a hearty raspberry. Dick shrugged, feigning innocence.

"Well it was great seeing you, Twinkle Toes," he said at length.

"Ditto, Robbie," Wally replied, semi-serious again. "And remember, if you ever need anything, just call me. I'll be there in a—"

"Flash," Dick finished for him.

"Well, yeah."

"See ya later, Wally."

"You too Dick. And good luck with those tests!" And with that, Wally West waved, flashed a cheeky grin, and took off at super speeds for parts unknown.

With a tired sigh, Dick threw the remains of his hotdog away in a nearby trashcan and made his way back to the bench. He still had many good hours of daylight in which to study.

---

Victor Stone exited the 86th Street Subway Station not entirely sure why he had come here. He had tried once more from his apartment to get a hold of Gar—both by telephone and computer—to no avail. Now here he was, on his way back to the museum. It had been the start of this mess, and for some reason Vic was uncannily sure that it would be the end of it. If he wanted to find Garfield Logan, this was the best place to start looking.

The trip back to his apartment was relatively on his way, and fortunately didn't take too much extra time. To try and decrease his dependency on S.T.A.R. Labs for routine physicals and maintenance, Vic had been working on a few upgrades of his own design. He had switched his normal eye-piece to a new prototype with enhanced telescopic and magnification features. While largely untested for long-term usage, the prototype might prove invaluable in helping him to spot his green friend in a crowd. As Victor shelled out the cash for the entry fee, he sincerely hoped that Gar was somewhere inside.

* * *

Garfield Logan sat in fly form on one of the roof support structures above the main lobby of the museum. He had a perfect view of everyone entering and exiting the museum, and was still maintaining his stakeout for Harvey Dent—or anyone who possibly fit the bill of one of his cronies. Therefore he easily noticed—with great chagrin, when Victor Stone entered the museum.

_What the heck is HE doing here?_ Gar thought to himself as he saw his friend grab a museum map from the tray by the information desk.

* * *

Victor studied the map, trying to decide the most probable place that Garfield could be. He committed the map to memory and then placed it back on the desk, having already planned out a search strategy. First off: a complete and thorough scan of the lobby area. That's where they first ran into Two-Face and his goons.

Victor quickly scanned the room with his electronic eye—no sign of Garfield Logan. The he squinted in just the right way and the magnification function switched on. Victor then scanned again, this time taking in _everything_, from the air vents to the picture frames.

_There!_

Victor was staring at the ceiling; or rather, at a surprisingly motionless fly on the ceiling. He squinted again to adjust the magnification factor and quickly zoomed in on the fly. Sure enough, the fly was green. It was Garfield.

Victor grinned up at him rather overtly but decided against waving. A person can mostly get away with smiling, but he didn't want people to wonder why he was waving at the ceiling. Quickly though that smile turned into a frown.

_What on Earth would Gar be doing perched on the lobby ceiling as a fly?_

…

…

…

_How the heck am I gonna get him to buzz down here and tell me?_

* * *

Garfield saw Victor looking through the crowd, only to have his gaze eventually focus in his general direction. Gar wondered if he'd been spotted, but the huge plastic grin that spread across Victor's face answered that question easily.

Caught red (green) handed, Gar left his perch and flew down to Victor. Just for fun, he buzzed his head a few times and watched with amused satisfaction as his friend had to allow the annoyance. After all, it wouldn't do for Victor to squish his best friend like the insect he currently was.

Brief moment of amusement passed, Gar then buzzed away.

* * *

Victor's electronic eye easily followed Garfield as he flew away. When he saw that Gar was headed for the men's room he quickly caught on and followed the fly. Gar gained entry as another patron left, and Victor followed almost immediately. He got there just in time to see the end of Garfield's transformation, and a petit green human was standing before him seconds later.

"What the _Hell_ are you doing?" Victor asked his friend rather hotly.

"Er, well—"

"Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you?"

"Well, I—"

"And why the fuck didn't you tell me that your ex-lawyer friend was Harvey Dent, a.k.a. _Two-Face!_"

Gar's surprised stammering quieted to a standstill at that line. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped, but he quickly recovered.

"Dude, how did you figure it out?"

"Your story left as many questions as it gave answers. I did a little digging and I found out that the only _surviving_ ex-lawyer to have touched your case was Harvey Dent. And I ask again, _why_ didn't you tell me?" In classic form, Victor's earlier concern over his friend's well being had now morphed into anger for having been kept in the dark and made to worry.

"Look dude, I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier," Garfield said sincerely. Then, rather sheepishly he asked: "Will you let me explain?"

Victor's anger softened just slightly at Gar's pitifully pleading expression. He relaxed a bit, and then gestured flagrantly with one arm.

"Oh, by all means, little buddy. Explain away."

Gar smiled slightly, but it fell from his face rather quickly. He sighed instead.

"Well, seeing Dent in the museum really threw me for a loop," he explained.

"Yeah, I got that when you said so the first time," Victor countered. "Why didn't you tell me the creep's name?"

Gar sighed again. "Well, I figure you know this by now, but Harvey Dent's big time bad news. He's the second most deadly villain in Gotham outside-a the Joker. Whenever he's on the loose, people get killed. Cops, innocent bystanders—not even his own hired thugs are safe! When I saw him at the museum, I just _knew_ that he was scopin' the place out, and I'd bet my entire allowance too that he's here to try and rip off the Egyptian exhibit."

"How do you figure that? Why would he be interested in the Egyptian stuff? It would be damn near impossible to fence."

"DUH! _Gemini_ dais, mummified _twins!_ Two-Face gets his jollies through the number two, and with anything that has duplicity or double meaning. It's his whole shtick."

"And how do you know that?"

"_Dude!_ Remember I'm actually _from_ Gotham? Everyone in Gotham knows about Two-Face and his damn coin and fucked up psychoses."

"And what? You figured that you'd hide in the lobby and try and take him out when he showed?" Victor asked incredulously.

Gar just stood there staring at him unwaveringly.

"Aw man! Are you _crazy!_ I've read up on your Gotham wacko. It takes the likes of Batman to stop him. What do you think you're gonna do? Turn into a giant snake and wrap him up for the cops?"

"After I left your place the other night I went flying," Gar explained. "When I was out I spotted Batgirl. I'd heard that Robin was seen in the City and I figured that the two of them must be here doin' recon work for Batman—you know? Trying to track down Two-Face? So I flagged her down and told her what I saw. I bet the three of them are gonna show up here and mop the floor with Two-Face and his goons and when they do I so _totally_ want a front row seat. That loser's the reason my adolescence sucked worse than the Knights' last season and I wanna be there when _his_ life goes to shit, too."

"And if the Dynamic Trio just so happens to need backup…" Victor asked through a grin. After hearing Garfield explain just what he was doing, he found that he couldn't _really _stay mad at him.

Gar's response was to blush as much as a green human is capable.

"While that's all well and good, Gar," Victor continued, "you still haven't told me why you didn't tell me about Dent from the beginning."

Gar's blushing smile faded at the reminder. He sighed yet again.

"I'm sorry, dude," Garfield apologized. "It's just… well, it's not exactly habit to have someone on hand who I can trust with stuff like that. I mean, look at me! I'm a meta with powers that interest more than just talent scouts and freak show owners. If word were to get out that I have a long-standing connection with one of Gotham's scariest villains it could attract some _very_ unwanted attention and trust me, you _soooo_ don't want the pointy-eared uber-freak keeping a running tab on you."

When Gar finished his explanation, Victor frowned. "Damn, dawg, you weren't supposed to have such a good explanation. Now I can't stay mad at you."

Garfield grinned and jumped up and down in excitement, clapping his hands. "SWEET!" He exclaimed. "You're, like, totally my best friend and I'd hate it if you were still mad at me."

"Don't sweat it," Victor reassured. "Now, what can I do to convince you to leave the police work to the actual cops—and Bat-type vigilantes?"

In response to this question Gar grew serious again. "No can do, dude. One way or another, Two-Face is goin' down tonight, and if I'm not helping then at least I'm gonna be watching and enjoying."

Victor sighed and ran a hand over his titanium scalp. "Well can I at least talk you into grabbing some pizza with me? I had a shitty school-brand lunch and you can make up for my entrance fee with sausage and pepperoni."

Gar seemed to waver a bit, so Vic added: "C'mon, Gar. Even if you're right about Two-Face—and there's no guarantee on that—he certainly isn't gonna try and pull something in broad daylight. From what I've read he's smarter than that. Too many things could go wrong."

Now it was Garfield's turn to sigh. "Yeah… Yeah I suppose you're right about that. Okay, pizza it is."

Victor smiled broadly. "Booya!"

"But if I'm paying I want peppers and onions," Gar swiftly added as they both exited the men's room.

"Go half and half?"

"We'll talk."

* * *

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Raven was 'seated' in the lotus position, hovering a foot above her bed.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

The mind of Garfield Logan is a far cry from the subtle silence of the mind of Dick Grayson. Instead of calming blackness, there's raging Technicolor activity. His thoughts are scrambled; shuffling so quickly from topic to topic that it lends an almost instinctual, animalistic feel to it. Unlike Dick's mind, whose quiet she can focus on for hours, Raven can't listen to Garfield's surface thoughts for longer than a few seconds before the cacophonous din gives her a headache. It's the main drawback to counting him as a friend. However, it's also the prime advantage for conducting a telepathic search for his psychic signature, because he would be remarkably easy to pick out of the proverbial crowd.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

All she had to do was extend her soul self out through the astral plane and follow the sound of the loudest jumble of unintelligible noises, and there she would find Garfield. Raven mentally followed a search pattern of ever-increasing circles spiraling outwards from her physical person, using her corporeal form as the epicenter for her search. In this fashion, Raven searched the campus…

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

The surrounding town…

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

The entire body of Long Island…

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Garfield was nowhere to be found.

_Azarath…… … Metrion…… … Xinthos…… …_

Raven slowly ceased her meditation and came to rest upon her mattress. She sighed tiredly and opened her eyes, taking a moment to glance at the clock. It was nearly four o'clock. A quick check revealed that Dick wasn't in his dorm room, either. With another sigh Raven pushed the ensuing thoughts out of her mind. She'd have time to worry about Dick when she was through searching for Garfield. She closed her eyes and resumed her meditation.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

So he wasn't anywhere on Long Island. Where else then could he be?

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

The next logical thought was that he was somewhere in the city, so Raven focused herself in that direction. However, New York is a much bigger, more densely packed haystack in which to be digging around for needles. She would need to concentrate harder, making sure to comb the city thoroughly so that nothing was overlooked.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

The best plan was to start in Manhattan, and then, if necessary, branch outwards from there. To accomplish this, Raven's soul self traveled along the astral plane to the southern tip of the island. She planned to conduct a thorough sweep moving in a northerly direction.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

This was going to take a while.

* * *

"Dude, I can_not_ believe they made me buy a ticket!"

"Yeah, well, you snuck in and then tried to sneak back out again," Victor explained over a mouthful of pizza.

"But that's so totally not fair!" Gar protested.

"This from the guy who snuck into the museum in the first place, as a _fly_ no less."

"Heh, I shoulda snuck back out as a fly too."

"But you didn't think of it," Victor pointed out. "And now you're paying the price."

"Real funny, dude," Garfield droned. "Regular comedian."

Victor just grinned and took another bit of pizza.

"I should probably be heading back soon," Gar continued on a more serious note.

"Back where?" Victor asked. "You mean the museum? Do I have to list the number of ways that that is a monumentally _bad_ idea?"

"But dude—"

"But what? It's a stupid thing to do and you know it."

"Two-Face ain't gonna notice a little bug on the wall."

"Unless that bug gets too caught up in the moment and attacks him as a spider monkey or something."

"Dude that's so totally not gonna happen," Garfield assured him. "The Bats will show up to deal with it and with the three of them in town it's so not gonna be a problem. I just wanna watch, man. To make up for all those years of court dates and social workers."

"Look dawg, the only way I'm gonna let you go back in there is if I go with you."

Garfield's eyes practically bugged out of his head. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" he stammered. "You wanna talk bad ideas? You're a six-foot tall walking talking hunk a metal—no offense. I can hide as a fly on the wall but where the heck are _you_ gonna fit?"

"In the men's room of course," Victor pointed out. "I'll just rig up a sign on one of the stalls that says 'out of order' and hide with my feet outta sight. No one'll know."

"And what the heck are you gonna _do_ squatting on a toilet for five hours?"

"The same thing you were planning on doing from the roof."

"Dude, I'm just gonna be there to watch and savor the moment."

"And _I'm_ going to be there to bail your ass out when the shit hits the fan."

Garfield blinked a few times as his mind processed what Victor just said. "Dude… You—you don't have to."

"Shut up and throw your trash away," Victor replied, standing up to do the same. "If we're going do this then let's do it before I change my mind."

Garfield grinned broadly and did as he was told. Then the two friends made their way out of the I Love New York pizza parlor and headed back towards the museum.

"Look dawg, before we get in there there's something I want to give you." The two of them were currently standing by the front entrance.

"Uh…"

Victor then opened a seemingly random compartment in his arm. He removed a small electronic device and held it out to Garfield in the palm of his hand.

"Dude, what _is_ that?"

"It's a one-way transmitter," Victor explained. "I've been working on it for extra credit in my electronics class. Stick it in your pocket or something. Then I can hear everything that you do."

Garfield blinked a few times before gingerly reaching out to grab the microchip-like device. He inspected it for a few seconds with something akin to awe before tucking it safely into his pocket.

"Uh, dude, you do of course realize that you're bugging a _bug_, right?"

"Shut up before I swat you."

Gar mock cringed. "Heeeelp meeeee," he whined in a high-pitched voice.

Victor smacked him for his efforts.

"… Ow."

* * *

**8:40 p.m.**

Dick was now in sitting in the Red Bird getting ready. The museum would be closing in twenty minutes and he needed to be inside when it did. He took full advantage of the tinted window feature to change out of his civilian clothes. He changed into the Robin costume, minus only the cape and utility belt. The mask he kept in a hidden panel inside the body armor. Then on top of the costume he added his disguise: one standard-issue rent-a-cop uniform. The museum had employed a boatload of them. Dressed as such, Dick could slip through the front door (without having to pay the admissions fee) and passed the real guards. No one would pay any attention to a security guard ignoring 'Do Not Enter' signs as he made his way to the roof. There he would ditch the disguise and grab the cape and belt.

Once dressed Dick made his way over to the service elevator in the back of the garage. The guard seated by the doors momentarily turned his radio down when he noticed the new guy approaching.

"'Evening Danny," Dick greeted in a perfect Brooklyn accent. The guard smiled congenially and tried to place the face that just greeted him.

"Uh, evenin'… Steinman," the guard read Dick's nametag.

Dick smiled back. "Butch and Tom wanted me to ride up to the roof after my dinner break. They want to be sure that the new cameras are working properly."

The guard squinted, studying the nametag and the face of the young man before him. "Uh… Have we met?"

A look of genuine hurt expertly crossed Dick's face. "The company picnic in the park last weekend," Dick informed him. "You remember? We bashed the Mets' pitching together while you were playing third and I was waiting for someone to bunt me home. You told me all about how you were going to score tickets to the playoffs."

"The picnic?" The guard's questioning face slowly melted. "Man, I was so hammered by the end that I don't remember half the stuff I did."

"Really? That's too bad. I guess you don't remember our little wager then, either."

The guard blinked. "Wager?"

"Yeah. Toronto won on Tuesday and I owe you five bucks."

"No kidding? Wow, Steinman, I'm sorry."

Dick shrugged. "S'okay don't worry about it. Just buy me a drink next time we all go to Finnegan's."

The guard chuckled as he turned his key in the elevator, opening the doors. "Sure thing, kid."

"Catch you later, Danny."

"Yeah, later."

When the doors closed Dick couldn't help but smile. His surveillance and research paid off in spades, and the guard bought the act. He pressed the button marked R for roof and rode the elevator to the top.

When the doors dinged open Dick noticed that the sky above was completely dark. The sun had fully set and nighttime was upon him. With a self-satisfied smirk, Dick found the air vent where he'd stashed the cape and utility belt. He shed the rent-a-cop disguise and pulled the eye mask from its hidden compartment and spirit gummed it into place. Then he fastened the cape to his shoulders and strapped on the belt, and now it was Robin standing on the rooftop of the Metropolitan Museum, waiting for Two-Face to make his move.

* * *

**1:30 a.m.**

Batgirl was standing in the shadows at the base of the north wall of the museum. If she'd guessed correctly, then Robin was probably already up there in full Bat-stakeout mode. While she was still incredibly pissed off that he had swiped her costume (which proved once and for all that he's known her identity all along, since no one uses real names in costume), she had shoved her anger to the back of her mind, along with whatever emotions were elicited by the realization that Dick Grayson was Robin. The only thing that mattered right now was that in roughly a half hour's time Two-Face was going to attempt a heist at this museum. The only relevant facts are that she is standing at the base of one of the largest and most respected museums in the world, in a city she is unfamiliar with, far away from the looming protective shadow of the Batman, and about to provide backup to the (recently revealed to be) former younger half of the Dynamic Duo, whether he wants it or not. Two-Face was one of the deadliest villains in the Gotham Rogues Gallery, and she'd be damned if she'd let Short Pants go it alone. After Dent is safely behind bars she'll be free to have the 'discussion' with Dick Robin Grayson that needs to happen, but not before.

With these thoughts in mind Barbara readied her Grappling gun. She fired and then watched as the grapple sailed through the air and hooked itself over the lip of the roof. Then she braced herself as the automatic pulley proceeded to hoist her aloft as it reeled in the cable. Soon she was standing squarely on the roof, taking in her surroundings.

"I'm sure your black and yellow costume blended _so_ _well_ against the white side of the building."

Batgirl nearly jumped out of her skin. She whipped around in the direction of the voice and saw Robin partially emerge from the shadows.

"Better than your red and green," she flippantly pointed out. Seeing him once again in costume, she still found it difficult to believe that it was Dick Grayson beneath the mask, but now that she knew the truth there was no mistaking it. However, now was not the time to bring it up, tempting though that was.

"I didn't scale the wall," Robin told her matter-of-factly.

"Any sign of Two-Face?" Batgirl asked in a neutral tone, trying to change the subject.

"If there had been you'd be late."

Batgirl seethed. "It's not two a.m. yet."

"And what if Dent decided to strike two hours after closing?" Robin redirected, his voice like ice.

That comment gave Batgirl sudden pause. "But he didn't," she pointed out.

"But he could have. And you wouldn't have been ready."

"And if he struck two minutes ago _you_ wouldn't have been ready, if you're too busy arguing with me to pay attention to your surveillance."

Robin's eyes narrowed in his mask. After a moment's pause he turned on his heel and stalked back into the shadows. He resumed his silent stakeout beside the air vent.

"You can be such a dick sometimes," Batgirl declared as she stomped over and joined him in the shadows. Robin effectively ignored her, preferring to keep his attention focused on the night around them. Two-Face could strike at any time—and she was right, focusing on her meant that he wouldn't be ready.

In the grand scheme of things, being put in his place by Batgirl just now was on the lower end of the totem pole of his current grievances; the first being that he gave her a _reason_ to put him in his place. He was still too emotional, too wrapped up in his own thoughts and feelings. He couldn't afford that right now. If he wanted to have any chance at all of stopping Two-Face he needed to focus. He would have to be just as cold, calculating, and unfeeling as the Batman himself; and up until a few minutes ago Robin could have sworn he'd had that covered.

Then Batgirl showed up.

Barbara.

He thought he'd taken care of her when he stole her costume, but obviously she had a spare hidden somewhere—or she drove all the way back to Gotham to get another one. Dick wouldn't have put it past her. _Damn redhead with her father's damn stubborn streak and damnable Irish temper._

She was just so determined to help him, and Dick could have sworn that her tenacity only increased the minute she found out her interference wasn't welcomed. In a sick, perverted way, Robin began to gain an appreciation for what Batman must have felt, tolerating his annoying sidekick presence all those years. No wonder there were cases where he would force the Boy Wonder to stay in the cave. Before he had reached an acceptable level of training there of course were villains that the Dark Knight didn't want his apprentice to go anywhere near. Now Dick found himself sitting uncomfortably on the other side of that fence. Two-Face was one of those villains, especially after— … what happened. No way in Hell was Batgirl ready to test her mettle against the fiend.

_Shit. **I'm**_ _probably not ready, either_, Dick lamented with a distinct Bat-like pout to his jaw. At least, when it was just him, it was _his_ trial, _his_ gauntlet to run. If things went poorly, the only unfortunate bacon to be fried would be his, and while he fully respected and appreciated the danger, he did not have any problems throwing himself into the line of fire. It's what he was trained to do. Trained for years by the best there is. It was his life, his calling, his karma. He _was_ Robin, and not even Batman could take that away from him. It wasn't a job, a hobby, a sport; it was a way of life, _Dick Grayson's_ way of life. It was his way of honoring his parents and ensuring that no other small boys had to live with survivor's guilt on top of losing their parents to the wicked criminal underbelly of the world. And tonight would prove to be his biggest challenge.

And then Batgirl showed up, and completely changed the nature of the game.

In his dark corner Robin seethed. Robin brooded and Robin frantically reviewed and reworked his plans. Now instead of focusing solely on Two-Face, his attention would have to be divided. Instead of a takedown plot, he was now wrapped up in a foil. Instead of tying Two-Face up in a neat little bundle to hand over to the authorities, he would just have to hope that he managed to prevent them from stealing the exhibit. It was all he could manage, if he had to constantly watch Batgirl's back at the same time. If he managed to apprehend most of the goons then that would be an added bonus. Two-Face, however, would take full advantage of a Robin off the top of his game. Barbara would be his primary target—he just _knew_ it, and there was no way to convince her to leave, and no time to come up with a better plan. He had no options now; Batgirl had just cost him Two-Face. Robin wanted to hate her for it—and he just might have succeeded, if he wasn't so focused on ways to keep her safe.

Robin felt the swell of emotions even as he did this, and he hated himself for them. Emotions cause doubt, which leads to indecision, and indecision… gets people killed. Dick learned that lesson well. At least before, when he was just the junior partner, the big decisions largely weren't his to make. Sure he would offer input, and Batman came to value his intuition, but in the end it was always the Dark Knight himself who called the shots. Of course Robin was free to argue and disagree all he wanted, _after_ the crisis was averted. In the thick of things though, there was no room for questioning, no room for debate, no room for _doubt_. Batman's orders were followed without question, usually to fruition but sometimes even to folly. Then sure, Robin could offer all the 'I told you so's he wanted (and quite often he did), but in the field, the Batman's orders were followed without question. It kept the Dark Knight happy, and as an added bonus it lifted the burden of responsibility off of Robin's shoulders. Batman's mistakes were Batman's alone, and Robin was spared the need to share in his guilt.

Robin carried enough guilt as it was from his own mistakes, but they were the result of poor execution, or even outright _failure_ on his part. Never were they the result of poor executive decisions. Never since— … That night, that horrible, horrible night.

Now Robin found himself standing on the roof of the Metropolitan Museum in New York, anticipating the arrival of Two-Face, with Batgirl by his side and no Batman anywhere to call the shots. This was _his_ show now. Robin was on his own, flying without a net. Whatever happened tonight—for good or ill, would rest entirely on his shoulders.

That was all well and good—Robin had accepted that the minute he began to lay the groundwork for this operation. But now that groundwork—the careful planning and mental preparation, had just been shot to Hell by the arrival of one vivacious redhead with often more exuberance than brains when it came to crime fighting. Now, here in the shadows with time desperately running out, Robin had to rebuild his strategy from the ground up. Robin had to… rethink his priorities. Number one had just become 'protect Barbara.' If in the midst of that they were able to apprehend a few goons and prevent Two-Face from escaping with most of the Egyptian exhibit, so be it. Dick would have time to hate her later, if he managed to get them out of this mess alive.

No, not Dick. _Robin_. If _Robin _managed to get them out of this mess alive—the only way he was going to succeed at that, was to remove all emotional attachments, because emotions bring doubt, and indecision… and death. Death was the real enemy, one that made Two-Face look like a tiptoe through the tulips. In order to keep his focus, in order to be able to make the correct decisions when the shit hit the fan as it inevitably was going to do, he could only be Robin and to Robin, she could only be Batgirl. Two vigilantes that pass in the night, that's all they were—all that he would allow them to be right now. He couldn't, _wouldn't_ think of her as Barbara Gordon. Barbara Gordon meant something to him. Barbara Gordon was his friend, and with villains like Two-Face, friends were nothing but liabilities.

Batgirl, however, was his colleague, his immediate partner for this operation. A cape and cowl, nothing more. And this was just another ordinary stakeout. Two-Face was just the villain they were trying to apprehend. There was no past. There was no history, no future and no feelings. There was only now, this night—however it chose to end. They were Robin and Batgirl on a mission; that was the end of it.

It could be no other way.

* * *

**1:45 a.m.  
Gotham**

The Batman has had a long day. Friday nights were historically the worst night for crime fighting, and so he didn't even return to the cave until nearly dawn. Then Bruce Wayne had to attend Saturday business luncheon with a few high-powered shareholders and then he had to make an appearance at the charity auction sponsored by the Wayne Foundation, which was capped off by fabulous evening of dining and entertainment designed to loosen people's purse strings. All said and done, he barely managed to escape the event without drawing unwanted attention to himself, and he didn't get back to the cave to begin preparing for his Saturday patrol until well into the evening.

Finally free of the trappings of high society, the Batman was just barely into his rounds when a general alert came through the police scanner. Apparently some local gang developed serious delusions of grandeur and attempted to knock off the First National Bank. They'd botched the attempt and set off the alarms, and a high-speed chase ensued. Squad cars and motorcycles littered the Gotham Expressway right up to the Trigate Bridge, where Batman had left caltrops in the road for a lovely parting gift. The getaway car blew out all four tires and spun out of control until it wrapped itself around a lamppost. The would-be thieves were dazedly pulling themselves out of the wreckage just in time for Gordon and his backup to arrive.

A flip of a switch and the Batmobile's onboard electromagnet cased the unused caltrops to return from whence they came, allowing Gordon's police cruiser access to the scene. Gordon drove on through, and the uniformed officers he brought with him apprehended the criminals. Justice now having been served, the commissioner took a leisurely stroll down to the end of the bridge. There he turned around and appeared to survey devastation wrought by the car chase.

Soon enough, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Thanks for your help," he said aloud, seemingly to no one.

"Any leads on Two-Face?" a gruff voice spoke from the shadows behind him.

"Not yet," Gordon answered. "Wherever he is, he's sure as hell staying under the radar."

"He'll turn up," Batman assured. "Scum always does."

Gordon nodded barely perceptibly in agreement. "Has Robin had any luck tracking him in New York?"

Silence.

A slight shift in the wind.

Gordon turned around… to find himself standing alone.

"I _hate_ it when he does that!"

* * *

Batman was already in the Batmobile, speeding back towards the cave.

"Alfred!" he barked into the communicator.

_Right here sir,_ Alfred's voice chimed in. _I must say, I think I've discovered_—

"Not now Alfred!" Batman cut him off. "Prep the batplane."

"_Very good, sir. And might I suggest that when you get to New York, you head straight to the Metropolitan Museum of Art._"

Batman's eyes narrowed. "I don't have time for games, Alfred."

"_Surely not, sir, but I just came across a very interesting article in the cultural section of today's paper on the Egyptian Twins exhibit…_"

"And today was the second day of showing," Batman concluded. "And the anniversary of the last time I busted him."

"_I__do hope that everything goes well, sir. Especially for Master Dick._"

"What do you mean, especially for Dick?"

"_For goodness sake, sir, doesn't Bruce Wayne check his personal voicemail? I called you this afternoon to tell you that one of Master Dick's friends from University called, wondering if he had gone home._"

"What?"

"_Apparently he hasn't been seen for several days, and his school friends are quite concerned for him_."

As they should be Bruce thought as he came to the straightaway of the Bob Kane Memorial Bridge. He hit the Nitro to boost his speed.

"Alfred?"

"_Yes, sir?_"

"Hurry."

* * *

**1:50 a.m.  
The roof of the Museum**

"You want to play," said Robin, breaking the silence and effectively startling Batgirl. "You follow my rules."

Batgirl scoffed. "Who died and made _you_ Bat?"

"I don't need you here. I don't _want_ you here. Having you here makes everything more dangerous. Batgirl is not a wildcard I want to play with in this game; the stakes are too high."

"Would you get _over_ yourself?" Batgirl told him off angrily. "You're not Batman. You're just the sidekick! You _need_ backup."

Dick glared at her icily from behind his mask. "You know why Batman never let you face Two-Face before," he told her, condescending in that Bat-superior way. "You're not ready. And if you don't know that then you're a fool."

First useless, then unwanted, and now a fool. Batgirl seethed behind her cowl, her _spare_ cowl, because the bastard stole her other one. How mild-mannered Dick Grayson shared a body with this jackass she'd never know.

"Oh I'm the fool now?" she redirected angrily. "You're the one who's hell-bent on facing off against Dent all by yourself."

"This is my show," Dick said levelly, pulling off his best impersonation of the Batman to date. "Either play it my way, or get the hell out. Your choice, Batgirl."

Batgirl hesitated a moment, almost as though she was seriously considering the matter—either that, or she was trying to force herself not to say something stupid.

"Wow…" she mused. "Someone really _did_ die and made you Bat."

Robin stood stone silent, as though he were waiting for her answer. Finally Batgirl sighed, and brought her temper back under control.

"What's the plan?" she asked dejectedly.

Robin didn't get the chance to answer her. He was cut off by the sound of a large crash, followed almost immediately by machinegun fire.

* * *

**1:50 a.m.  
Inside the Museum**

From where he was hiding in the men's room, Victor Stone could still hear everything that happened inside the museum, thanks to the new and improved earpiece he had upgraded to. Of course, he didn't need the extra help to hear the incredibly large crash or to feel the building shake.

Realizing suddenly that the rules had changed, Vic abandoned his hiding place and booked it back into center of the lobby. What he saw there made his jaw drop. A gang of thugs in cheap suits piled their way out of a brand new H3 that had just crashed through the front door—literally. The newly wrecked hummer, painted two-toned in black and white, was still spinning its wheels in the debris field.

"Holy…" Victor breathed, a cybernetic deer caught in the hummer's one good headlight.

"Well, well, well," he heard a scratchy, throaty voice drone. His telescopic eye caught sight of a man in a two-toned suit to match the hummer carrying a Tommy gun. The villain known as Two-Face was now climbing his way around the fallen stones and other detritus now littering the lobby entrance. "What have we here," he asked. "Garfield's own personal Tin Man." Two-Face fished his coin out of his pocket and flipped it… flipped it… flipped it.

Victor stood stock-still, well aware of the numerous machineguns trained on him.

Finally Two-Face snatched the coin out of the air. He palmed it and then flipped it over onto the back of his hand. He studied it a moment, and then looked up at Victor, grinning. "Boys!"

The goons snapped to attention.

"What's say we blow this hunk of junk back to Oz."

* * *

The green fly on the roof supports had transformed itself into a green rat as soon as the museum had closed. Thus with keen ears Garfield Logan heard everything that was said below him. The Bats weren't here yet and God only knows what happened to the guards. Thus there was no one on hand to help Victor, who was currently facing the business end of eight machineguns.

The green rat snarled in anger. Two-Face has screwed with his life enough, he most certainly in NOT going to get away with turning his best friend into Swiss cheese.

The rat dove off the roof and turned into a Tyrannosaurus that landed heavily in the center of the lobby.

"What the—"

Two-Face's questioning was cut off by the T-Rex's sudden ear-splitting roar that reverberated painfully around the cavernous lobby. Most of the goons dropped their guns to cover their ears.

T-Rex shot its tail around and upended Victor ("Ack!") while the bad guy's were distracted. A bit of fancy footwork and Victor was tossed onto the dinosaur's back just in time for Garfield to transform into a thoroughbred and take off around a corner, down a corridor and out of site.

"After them!" Two-Face shouted to his goons, and the chase began.

"But Gar I don't know how to ride a horse!" was heard shouted above the blazing machinegun fire that trailed after them, kicking up plaster and masonry dust all around them.

The horse snorted and pressed onwards, hoping to lose the thugs at an outright gallop through the museum while at the same time managing to not dislodge his passenger, whose arms were wrapped about the horse's green neck for dear life.

Then suddenly and without warning the horse slammed on the brakes, skidded to a halt, and transformed into an orangutan.

"_Aieeeeee!_" Victor went sailing ass over teakettle until a large hairy arm lassoed him and dragged him through a service door and into a stairwell.

"Where did they go?"

"Split up! Find them!"

The orangutan turned back into a petit, out-of-breath green human. Victor turned to him as soon as he caught his breath.

"So you got any more bright ideas?"

The footsteps of the goons were getting closer.

"Just one," Garfield replied, panting slightly still. "Run."

* * *

**1:52 a.m.**

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Raven's soul self was flying over the island of Manhattan. She still hadn't found any sign of Garfield Logan, and this was her _second_ sweep of the area. Perhaps she was not as attuned to the psychic signatures of others as she had previously thought?

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

He had to be out there somewhere…

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

If only he would… think… a little louder.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

She'd be able to find him.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

**FLASH!**

_Loud noises. _

_Dust and stone flying everywhere._

Raven gasped

**FLASH!**

_Men in suits._

_Men in suits carrying guns._

_A long, dark hallway._

Raven flinched.

**FLASH!**

_Wind in her face._

_A racing heartbeat._

_The stench of sweat._

_And gunpowder._

"Nnnnngh!"

**FLASH!**

Raven toppled over backwards, crashing back down into her pillows.

Her eyes were squinted shut, and she was panting.

Panting…

Panting…

**FLASH!**

_Adrenaline._

_Chaos._

_Fear._

_**Fear?**_

**FLASH!**

Raven's eyes snapped open. She inhaled sharply and shot up in bed.

"The museum…"

Raven scrambled to her feet and threw open her closet door. She grabbed her blue cloak and threw it about her shoulders. Garfield was at the Metropolitan Museum, and he was in trouble. Big trouble.

Raven stood in the center of her room. She took a few deep breaths and centered herself, distancing her own emotions from the vision she just received. Her whole body was tense, a testament to how strongly the vision affected her.

"This had better be worth it," she grumbled, right before an obsidian hole opened in the floor beneath her feet. Raven sank down into it—into the astral plane. This would allow her to travel at higher speeds than normal levitation, and she sensed that time was indeed of the essence.

She headed for the museum.


	13. Eye of the storm

**The museum roof**

Robin and Batgirl ran over to the edge of the roof. Then, bracing themselves on the lip of a railing, they peered down towards the front entrance. They saw the giant cloud of dust begin to settle knew it meant that Two-Face had just come in through the front door, violently.

"Wait!" Batgirl called out as Robin swiftly spun on his heel and dashed across the rooftop.

Robin skidded to a stop above the spot where the loading dock sat, far below him. Batgirl joined him seconds later, and followed his gaze down towards the street… and the box truck that idled in waiting.

"That wasn't there a minute ago…" Batgirl whispered.

Robin's eyes narrowed in his mask. "Deal with the truck. Make sure it can't drive away. Then find the FBI. They're hiding somewhere; they know the score. Fill them in, and help them nab anyone who tries to escape."

Orders given, Robin turned and ran to a seemingly random spot on the north wall.

"But—"

"Stay with the feds!" Robin reiterated in an icy, no-nonsense tone. Then he shot his grapple into the roof and jumped off.

Batgirl ran to the ledge, reaching the spot he had just vacated at the same instant the high-pitched sound of breaking glass reached her ears. "Figures," she muttered, not really surprised that Robin knew exactly which window to melodramatically bust through. Then she ran back to the spot above the loading dock. She didn't have any telescopic eyepieces in her cowl, but she did have a small but powerful pair of binoculars. With these she surveyed the scene below her.

"Looks like just a driver," she murmured to herself. She stowed her binoculars and ran to a different spot along the ledge, a good distance behind the truck to avoid being spotted. Then she emulated Robin and fired her grapple into the roof. Batgirl carefully repelled down to the street, determined to do her job while still silently fuming at how easily Robin had dished out orders. She knew that her 'assignment' was Bat-verse for dismissal, and she wasn't about to let him get away with it. "We're going to have a long chat, Short Pants," she promised herself. "And you can't avoid me. I know where you live."

Once on the ground, Batgirl crept through the shadows over towards the box truck. It was the largest size allowed on the isle of Manhattan, white yet slightly dirty—just enough to not attract attention. It even had New Jersey plates, and Batgirl would have bet serious money that it was legitimately rented to one of Harvey Dent's aliases, or even to one of his more naïve goons.

Batgirl checked the truck's side view, making sure that the driver wasn't paying any attention. Seeing that the coast was clear, she crept along the side of the truck until she was practically at the driver's door. She knocked twice, loudly, against the metal of the door, and then quickly ducked out of the way.

Inside the truck, the driver glanced warily out the window. Due to the nature of his job, Batgirl had guessed correctly that he was overly paranoid. While he was staring intently into the darkness outside his window, Batgirl had already snuck around the front of the truck. She knocked loudly on the passenger door this time, before slinking back around the front of the truck again. She chanced a glance inside the driver's window and saw the driver leaning over in his seat to peer out of the passenger window. Batgirl smirked and gingerly reached a hand up to the door handle. The door quietly popped open for her, and she let it swing.

The door made it nearly all the way open before groaning on its hinges. The driver quickly pivoted back around, and his face barely had time to contort into an expression of surprised alarm before Batgirl winked at him and landed a knockout punch squarely in his left eye.

"Lights out," she half-heartedly taunted when he slumped over onto the steering wheel. Then Batgirl whipped out a pair of bat-cuffs and handcuffed the driver's hands awkwardly through the steering wheel and then together around the steering column. Then she shut him in the truck, trusting that he would remain unconscious for a while yet.

The solitary goon taken care of, Batgirl grabbed a razor-edged batarang and proceeded to slash both front tires, grinning in satisfaction at the telltale hiss of escaping air.

"Child's play," she assessed, torn between being disappointed or pleased. Of course, now she was supposed to track down the FBI agents that Robin said were in the area. "Since when do we play ball with the feds?" she wondered. After all, it was still a struggle for the batclan to cooperate with the GCPD. Of course, it didn't help that the two most stubborn and pigheaded men she knew were her father and Batman…

Batgirl frowned slightly as she realized that it was in everyone's best interests if she followed Robin's orders. She'd done as she was told, and now she had to finish it. She would have her words with Dick later. Right now, she was absently pacing forward—which happened to be back alongside the truck, as she stared off into the darkened park, wondering where on earth the feds were hiding.

Suddenly there was a noise behind her. She tensed and spun around in a defensive stance, just in time to see the back door of the trailer fly open. Batgirl's eyes widened as she saw five menacing thugs toting Tommy guns crouching in the back of the truck. The one who lofted the door seemed just as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

"It's a bat!" he cried.

"Shoot it!" yelled another.

Barbara barely had time to gasp before the thugs opened fire.

* * *

**A stairwell**

"How did I let you talk me into this?"

"Me? You're the one who charged into the open!"

"Shut up and keep running!"

Victor and Garfield were sprinting down an access staircase with what had to be the two most athletic henchmen ever in the history of the Gotham Rogues Gallery hot on their heels. So far, the duo had managed to keep just ahead of the goons, enough so that they managed to avoid generating a direct line of fire.

"If you get me killed I'll haunt you for the rest of your life!" Victor grunted as they rounded another landing. Mentally he noted that they had to be nearing the third subbasement.

Then suddenly the stairs ended.

The bottom floor was a veritable closet of a hallway, and then a door, sealed with a combination lock. Garfield frantically clutched at the doorknob, but the lock wouldn't give.

"Uh, dude? I think that's gonna be a lot shorter than you think."

"Lemme see that!" Cyborg rushed ahead of Gar and began madly pressing buttons, trying to release the lock. "Come on, come on!"

"Dude! You're like, made of steel! Just break it in!"

"End of the line, kiddies."

Both Victor and Garfield spun around to see two goons standing on the stairs with triumphant grins on their faces and automatic weapons in their hands.

Gar cowered behind Victor and in a small, whimpering voice said: "Please tell me you're bulletproof…"

Victor frowned, realizing that he was staring death in the face but not allowing himself to think about it. Instead, for Garfield's sake, he looked defiantly up at the gun-toting goons and sincerely hoped that the bullets would hit the titanium.

"Why don't you come down here and say that?"

* * *

**The museum roof**

"Stay with the feds!"

As Robin swung down on his decel cable he could only hope that his orders would be obeyed. With any luck, the truck would be virtually unguarded. Of course, there is no such thing as luck in the vigilante business, so Robin surmised more realistically that Batgirl would have about four thugs to contend with. With the element of surprise in her favor she should be able to handle it.

In Robin's mind, he had just turned Batgirl's unfortunate arrival to good use. The truck would be secured and then Batgirl would be his liaison to Hernandez's men. Barbara wound up being able to help after all, which would please her. More importantly, it kept her from interfering with his mission. Not only that, but it should also keep her safe.

As Robin braced for impact with the window he allowed himself a brief moment of relief as his plans went back on track. He was about to break into the exhibit hall the hard way, but the Dynamic Duo is well known for making an entrance. Shocking and impressing the bad guys is a relatively simple method of throwing them off their guard, and oftentimes it provides all the edge you need—and it was fun.

Robin swung in and crashed into the window feet-first. He felt the pane give way as his body began to part glass like it was water. The shattering sound echoed loudly in his ears as he deftly twisted his body so that the cape and costume absorbed the impact of the falling shards of glass. Once through the window Robin released the decel cable and pulled his twisting body into a tucked position. Now he was somersaulting through the air and down the eight feet to the exhibit hall floor. He landed expertly on his hands and pushed off enough to prevent his head from striking the hardwood. He completed the forward roll and shot to his feet in a defensive stance, a birdarang clutched in each hand.

He was just in time to see Two-Face waltz into the exhibit hall, flanked by ten hired thugs, all of them acting like they owned the place.

"Slow day in Gotham, Harvey?" Robin called out with Bat-like bravado.

"Ah, the bird boy," Two-Face sneered, pulling his coin out of his pocket. "Is the Bat finally letting you out to play by yourself?"

"Why do you do yourself a favor and give up now?" Robin deadpanned with menace.

Two-Face barked a laugh and casually began flipping his coin. "That's what we always liked about you. Not a lot of brains but you sure do have guts."

Robin scowled, slightly shifting his grip on the birdarangs.

"You remember the last time you tried to take us on all by yourself? Well _we_ do…"

"And I'll bet it keeps you warm in your padded cell those nights after we ship your ass back to Arkham."

"Enough!" Two-Face spat, snatching his coin out of mid air. "Let's see what justice has for you."

"Still trying to nickel and dime your victims to death, Harv?" Robin asked, affecting boredom and secretly enjoying it.

"This is justice!" Harvey shot back.

"You want justice? Then come and get it!"

Two-Face merely laughed a staccato laugh, and just one glance sent the goons fanning out beside him, going for positions. Robin maintained a death grip on his birdarangs, every muscle of his body tense and ready for action as he eyed the thugs slowly fanning out around him, covering him like a firing squad.

Then suddenly he heard a noise behind him—multiple noises. Robin couldn't help but chance a glance. What he saw made him gasp and then inwardly cringe. A group of seven museum guards marched in from the service entrance, all armed with pistols—which they promptly whipped out and aimed at the Boy Wonder's head. Robin found himself effectively surrounded

"Poor bird brain," Two-Face taunted. "Always two steps behind."

Robin now had seventeen armed thugs to deal with on top of Two-Face, thanks to the guards' treachery. He didn't have time to think about it now, though. He needed to react. He was already in his crouch when Two-Face shouted:

"Kill him!"

And Robin took to the air through a barrage of gunfire.

* * *

**Meanwhile…**

—_All units respond—211 in progress—All units report to 1000 Fifth Avenue—Fifth Ave. at 82 Street—211S—_

"This is 4Romeo26, responding to 211 in progress at 1000 Fifth Avenue."

—_10:4 4Romeo 26—be advised that Special Agent Hernandez is in charge on site—_

"Roger that, dispatch. 4Romeo26 out." The sergeant in the police cruiser jammed the receiver down, rolled down his window, and yelled to his partner: "C'mon Jack! Get your ass in gear!"

The partner in question, upon hearing his name, increased his speed from stroll to sprint as he exited the burger joint, coffee mugs and takeout bags clutched haphazardly in his hands.

"What's the deal, Mike?" he asked, quickly passing the food and drink to his partner through the open window before scurrying around to the passenger's side.

"We got a 211 in progress, and everyone's invited to the party," Sergeant Michael Vicks replied, hastily throwing the takeout bag into the back seat and stowing the coffee in the cup holders as his partner Officer Jackson Long buckled himself in."

"Never fails," Jack muttered. "Coffee breaks and robberies, robberies and coffee breaks. I'm starting to think someone up there doesn't like us."

"Yeah, well, you keep thinkin' that," the sergeant replied as he flipped on the sirens and pulled hastily into the two a.m. traffic.

"Uh oh, what is it this time?"

"The feds are chaperoning this one."

"Feds? Christ, what the heck are they doing here? I mean it's not like…" But his voice trailed off. "Uh oh…"

"Uh oh—_what_ uh oh?" The sergeant questioned. "What now?"

"Where's that robbery?"

"Fifth Ave. and 82nd, why?" The sergeant then saw his partner's face pale considerably. "What? It's not your mother's house or anything…"

"Don't you know what sits at Fifth Ave. and 82nd Street?"

"Sure, that's in the Park." And then the realization sunk in. "Oh. Oh, fuck!"

"Fuck is right."

Being not terribly far from the museum in the first place, officers Vicks and Long arrived with the first wave of responding squad cars. However, they noticed with chagrin that the jurisdictional turf war had already begun.

"Uh oh…"

"Looks like Captain Booker has already introduced himself."

"Think he said hello first this time, or went straight to the pissing contest?"

"Search me. Come on Jack, let's see if we can stop old Blue-in-the-Face from doing something he'll regret."

Officer Long nodded, and they both exited the squad car.

Captain Lionel Booker was the type of cop that city officials loved and ordinary officers hated. He could—and often does, quote police regulations until both he and the unfortunate listener are blue in the face, hence his colorful nickname that he only pretended he didn't know about. And it appeared as though he took official exception to the FBI presence on scene.

"I don't care _who_ you are!" They heard Booker argue rather hotly as soon as they stepped out of the cruiser. "You don't have the authority to reassign _my_ men!"

"If we want to have any hope of catching Dent then we need to send men into the museum!" Hernandez argued back.

"Are you _crazy_? We can't risk a firefight in there! Those exhibits are worth _millions_!"

"Can't you see the damn doorway? We risk more destruction by sitting on our hands out here _waiting_."

"Those men you tried to send into the museum are now establishing roadblocks at ever major intersection in midtown! _And_ I have snipers moving into position to cover every possible exit. We'll nab Dent easy as soon as he tries to make off with the goods."

"Are _you_ crazy?" Hernandez redirected the question. "We can't let Dent have the advantage like that. He'll get the drop on your men and escape with the artifacts!"

"Oh yeah? Soon we'll have isolated the museum from the city's power. We turn the lights out on him, send helicopters overhead to make him nervous, and shield our officers with spotlights. When he comes out of one of those doors he'll never know what hit him."

"This isn't some two-bit criminal or run-of-the-mill terrorist you're dealing with, here. This is Harvey Two-Face Dent, scourge of Gotham himself! He's got every single detail of this heist planned, and probably has ever since he engineered his escape from Arkham! With none of the guards responding to the radios we can only assume that he's already killed them. He and his men are alone in there, and that gives them the upper hand. You think you'll make him sweat? Right now he's calling the shots, and if we just sit and here _let him_ he'll come out on top, I guarantee it!"

"You're right, he probably _has_ killed the guards already. If I send my men in there, in addition to the millions in property damage—property that several foreign governments have entrusted to our safekeeping, it'll cause a bloodbath! I _won't_ wantonly risk the lives of my men, _agent_. We do this _my_ way, _by the book!_ And that's _FINAL!_"

Hernandez looked like he was about to protest further, but decided against it. "All the lives that that maniac takes when he escapes your custody are on _your_ head, Booker," he said instead with dismissive distain as he turned away.

Booker waved dismissively before turning himself, and that's when he saw Long and Vicks approaching. "The Hell you looking at?"

"Nothing."

"Not a thing, captain."

Booker nodded. Then he fished in his pockets for his cigarettes and lighter. "Well don't just stand there," he spoke around the cigarette he just stuck in his lips. "Get back in your car and head over to the 82nd Street roadblock."

"Yes captain," Sergeant Vicks answered. Then, shaking their heads, the two officers got back into their squad car to do as they were told.

"What do you think?" Officer Long asked his partner as they pulled away from the scene.

"This is 4Romeo26 reporting to the 82nd Street roadblock, over," Vicks spoke into the radio. Then, to Long: "I think we'll be lucky to get out of this one without losing half the force or blowing the museum to smithereens."

"You put any stock in the rumors?"

—_Roger that 4Romeo26—_

"You mean, about how the feds supposedly got their tip from one of the figments of the Gotham underworld's collective imagination?" Vicks asked as he replaced the receiver.

"Cute," Long reproached as he took a sip of cool coffee, and grimaced.

"What? The official position of the GCPD is that there _is no_ Batman."

"And the official position of the rest of the world is that Gordon's lying to protect his assets."

"Heh, assets is right," Vicks replied as he pulled back into traffic.

"C'mon Mike, aren't you the least bit curious to know if Booker's being such a hardass to prevent any vigilantes from entering the museum at the same time he wants to nab Dent when he tries to escape?"

"Well, officially I'd have to say not a chance in Hell, because old Blue-in-the-Face would _never_ buy into the underworld rumors of pointy-eared vigilantes that stalk the night with brightly-colored children in tow."

"And _un_officially?"

"Unofficially? I've already thrown in twenty on the men in tights into the precinct pot for how this bust goes down."

Long just had to laugh. "Are you kidding? Half the department bet against there being any trouble tonight!"

"And so far I'm one for one, and the night is young."

Officer Jackson Long sighed tiredly and shook his head. "Why do I get the feeling that it's going to get old _real_ fast?"

* * *

**Central Park  
The Great Lawn**

Raven's soul-self materialized up through the lawn, breaking free of the astral plane in the same motions that broke her free of the earth. Like one surfacing after a long time underwater, she took a large, shuddering, and silent gasp, allowing her physical self to manifest itself again through the simple act of that first inhale.

Raven could see the museum from where she stood, and even from this distance she could sense the chaos that was spreading outwards from the Egyptian exhibit hall like a stain. Her blue cloak billowed slightly in a sudden, chilly wind, and a few strands of hair were pulled aloft from the protective veil of her hood to stream in front of her face. It was as though the museum itself had come alive, a hulking golem of cacophonous thought and raging emotion that was sucking all things into it's gaping maw of hatred and aggression.

It was the essence of everything that Azar warned her about.

Raven closed her eyes and felt her soul self yearning forwards, pulled as though a moth to a flame or an anchor by gravity down into the sea, drawn by the painful hunger of those emotions.

"Turning and turning in the widening gyre…" Raven murmured to herself, quoting. Garfield Logan and Victor Stone were in there, somewhere. If she could just sift through the anger, displace the fear, and keep herself well above the desperation—

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

The duality was palpable. Good and evil. Darkness and light. Life and death. Each begetting the other in vicious, never-ending cycles.

"The falcon cannot hear the falconer…"

Raven steeled her soul self and levitated towards this all-consuming vortex, praying that the center would hold just long enough for her to find her friends and keep them safe.

Yes, _friends_. She realized now what her soul self felt, as she literally sailed headlong into her greatest challenge yet.

* * *

**The stairwell**

"Why don't you come down here and say that?"

Garfield's eyes bugged out of his head.

The thugs sniggered and marched menacingly forward.

"I ain't never killed no freak shows, before," said one of them.

"Me neither," his buddy replied. "I always wanted to."

Victor's mouth was too dry to swallow past the lump in his throat. Nevertheless, he stood his ground. "Oh yeah?" he taunted, hoping and praying that his voice was steady.

"What are you doing?" he heard Garfield hiss behind him.

Victor ignored him. Instead, he concentrated on his circuitry. Mentally following the path of his cybernetic synapses, Victor managed to create a small internal power surge. His cybernetics began to glow an electric blue from the increased power and his cybernetic eye glowed bright red.

The guards paused in their decent, halfway down that final flight of stairs. It seemed as thought Victor's light show had given them pause, and now they were nervous, caught unawares and unsure what to do. They kept their guns at the ready while exchanging glances.

Victor, meanwhile, dilated his cybernetic pupil and did his best to sound menacing when he said: "Then come and get it." After all, he was the only one who knew that his only weapons right now were parlor tricks and bravado.

However it was Garfield that they should have been worried about. When the green teenager saw how close the thugs were he instantly decided to take advantage of their momentary hesitation. Behind the (hopefully) protective shield of Victors hulking cybernetic frame, he morphed into a giant squid. Victor's eyes went wide as the sight of green tentacles suddenly lashing out from behind him broke his concentration.

"Dah!" His cybernetics lost their glow as he nearly jumped out of his flesh and metal skin as Garfield's tentacles flailed at the thugs like cracking whips.

"AAAAH!"

"Holy sh—"

WHACK!

Suddenly the thugs found themselves standing empty-handed. Two of Garfield's tentacles had knocked the guns forcibly out of their hands. Now two different tentacles flicked down and slid themselves through the trigger guards. The tentacles then retracted quickly, turning back into scrawny green arms as they went.

Victor spun around to see Garfield awkwardly holding an Uzi in one hand and a Tommy gun in the other.

This action revealed the green teenager to the thugs, who were too busy sweating and clinging on to each other in fear to notice how ridiculous Gar looked.

"P-P-Please…"

"Don't shoot!"

Victor didn't know what to do.

"Well, don't just _stand there!_" Gar cried, waving his arms absently for emphasis and making everyone jump as the guns went with them. "Go use your superhuman strength and, like, _knock them into next Tuesday!_"

The average thug may not be too bright, but the one thing they have in common is a keen sense of self-preservation. These two winners were no different. They barely gave Victor the chance to begin his grinning, menacing march towards them before turning tail and fleeing back up the stairs.

Victor sprinted after them, and caught up to them as they reached the landing with his cypernetics-enhanced speed.

"Gah!"

"Ack!"

Victor caught them both roughly by their collars from behind. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Mommy-"

SLAM!

Victor bashed the thugs into each other like they were rag dolls. They fell unconscious in a heap on the landing when Vic let go of them. Then he turned around to face Garfield at the bottom of the stairs, dusting his hands off.

"Duuuuuude…" Gar breathed, staring in awe at his friend's display of physical prowess. He still held both guns loosely at the end of dangling arms.

"Need a satisfying crunch?" Victor asked with a grin.

Gar couldn't help but laugh. "Dude, you could like, give Superman a run for his money!"

"I wouldn't go that far," Victor deflected, slightly embarrassed. "Now why don't you put those things down before you shoot someone—like me."

Gar simpered and dropped the guns. He drew his hands quickly behind his back, blushing as much as his green skin would allow as he backed away from them.

Victor marched unceremoniously back down the stairs and proceeded to stomp down on the muzzles of the guns, rendering them about as useful as scrap metal.

"Well…" Gar struggled for what to say. "That was fun," he offered insecurely.

"You have a sick sense of humor, you know that?" Vic pointed out, though he was smiling when he said it.

Garfield laughed briefly and then sobered. "Uh, what do we do now?"

"Heh, don't look at me dawg. This was your show, remember?"

"Dent's upstairs right now…" Gar whispered, a plethora of emotions swirling in his words. "And he knows were here."

"Yeah, but he sent Dumb and Dumber to take us out, so he's probably not worried about us." Victor paused and then frowned. "Yet."

"He's stealing the exhibit, Vic," said Garfield, his eyes wide. Victor thought he looked considerably young, and, ever so slightly, afraid.

"So he's distracted," the cybernetic teen concluded. "As long as we avoid the exhibit hall we should be able to sneak out of here and warn the police."

Gar seemed hesitant, and Victor frowned again.

"What? You can't seriously be thinking of staying…"

"I dunno, Vic. Harvey Dent always seems to get away with stuff. I don't want him to get away with this, too."

"And he won't," Victor assured. "The boys in blue can handle this."

Garfield shook his head. "I don't think so, Vic. I wish there was some way of knowing if Batman and his team was here or not."

Victor's frown turned pensive for a moment, then he smiled faintly. "I think there may be a way for us to learn just that."

"Dude, seriously?"

Victor nodded, then turned to the locked door.

"How?"

"Well if I'm right, then the monitoring station for the museum should be on the other side of this door. From there we can take a look at the camera feeds. We'll be able to see if Batman's here _and_ what old Scarface is up to." And he began pressing random buttons on the combination lock.

Garfield winced. "Uh, dude? That's _Two_-Face."

Victor blinked, slightly confused. "Yeah. I know. I was just, you know, dissin' the guy by twisting his name?"

Garfield laughed, catching on. "Well you'll have to pick another name Vic. 'Scarface' is the name of another Gotham nut-job."

Victor stopped his code breaking and turned to regard his friend. "Man, you've got to be kidding me!"

"Heh, nope. He's a dummy that fancies himself a mobster. Really loony tunes, dude."

"Most of your Gotham baddies are dummies, Gar," Victor pointed out teasingly.

Gar simpered. "Actually, Vic, I kinda meant that literally."

"Say what?"

"Dummy, as in the better half of a ventriloquist?"

Victor stared blankly, confused.

"Just another split personality, dude," Gar explained. "Only instead of living in the same freak job they're ventriloquist and dummy, but the dummy's in charge, and calls himself Scarface."

"No. No way," Vic protested. "Not even Gotham produces villains _that_ messed up."

"And this from the guy who grew up around the exploits of a villain who can only be defeated when he says his own name backwards."

"Point taken," Victor conceded as he returned to his attempts to crack the combination lock.

"Uh, dude?" Gar asked after a moment.

"Yeah?" Victor answered without stopping is attempts.

"Why don't you just break down the door?"

Victor stopped to stare blankly at his friend for a moment before turning back to the lock. A few seconds later and he pressed the right sequence of buttons and the lock popped open.

"DUUUUUUDE!"

"Because breaking the door would be wrong," Victor answered sarcastically as he pushed the door opened. "Besides, with the sensors in my fingertips I could feel the tumblers move when I pressed the right buttons." And he walked into the darkened basement room without further ado.

"Did I ever tell you that I'm glad you're one of the good guys?" Garfield asked as he followed. He didn't get very far, though, because in that instant he wasn't paying attention and he walked straight into Cyborg's back.

WHUMP!

"Ack! Dude—"

"Uh oh…"

"Uh oh? What uh oh? Man don't you dare say 'uh oh' now!"

Victor didn't. Instead he flicked on the lights.

The basement lit up in a soft fluorescent glow. Gar squinted instantly as his optic nerves were assaulted, but he recovered quickly. Then he stepped aside and saw with his own eyes what the darkness and Victor's body prevented him from seeing before.

"… Uh oh…"

This was indeed the monitor room, complete with wall-to-wall video screens and computer stations. Right now those screens were blank, or showing silent snow. The computer stations had been shot to pieces. A few of them were still sparking at random intervals. There were glass shards and bits of plastic everywhere. No piece of electronic equipment had been spared destruction.

"How…?" Victor asked, shaking his head in confusion and disbelief.

His answer was a faint, muffled sound coming from somewhere inside the room.

"Dude, did you hear that—"

"Shhh!" Victor focused his cybernetic hearing.

Gar waited patiently. Quietly. Nervously.

"It's coming from over there," Victor deduced, pointing towards another door.

"The closet?"

"Or the hub."

"I could turn into a bug again…" Gar offered, sounding very much like he didn't want to do it. "Fly in under the crack in the door."

"Or we could just open it," Victor countered. "I don't see a lock."

"Okay," Gar agreed. "Go for it."

Victor glanced bemusedly at his companion, who simpered and shrugged. Then he began to cross the room, headed towards the door. He stepped carefully through the debris field, and Garfield followed closely at his heels. As they went, the muffled sounds grew louder.

When they stopped in front of the door, Victor reached a hand out to grasp the handle only to suddenly have Gar's hand shoot forward and grab his wrist. They exchanged a knowing glance, and then Gar looked away and dropped his hand. He backed off a few paces and then morphed into a green lion—ever mindful not to cut a paw on the glass-littered floor. Lion-Gar crouched, ready and waiting.

Victor smirked and turned the door handle, pulling it wide open.

"MMMMMFF!"

Victor's jaw dropped. There in front of him sat twelve museum guards, their hands and feet bound with duct tape and their mouths sealed with it.

"MMRRRFFFF!" The source of the muffled sounds.

"Gar! Grow opposable thumbs again and get in here!"

Victor knelt before one of the guards, seated in a row against the back wall, and tried to gingerly tear the duct tape away from his mouth. In doing so, he revealed to them the green lion that had been standing behind him.

"MMMMMMFFFF!" Their eyes bugged, but only to grow wider when the lion became a petit green human before their eyes.

"Who the hell are you?" the just un-gagged guard asked.

"Luke Skywalker," Gar supplied without missing a beat, cutting off what would have been Victor's unsure babbling as he no doubt would have tried to explain. "We're here to rescue you."

The guard frowned at Garfield. "Aren't you a little short for a superhero?"

"Watch it, or that duct tape goes back where we found it," Victor replied tersely, even as Gar stooped to help him. By now he had managed to free four guards from the binds on their hands. Those guards were now working to free their legs and mouths.

"No, seriously," the guard redirected. "You both look too young to be with the Justice League."

"You know, for a grateful hostage you sure do ask a lot of questions," Victor told him as he freed another guard.

"Yeah well our honorable colleagues ambushed us, took the guns from those of us licensed to use them, and locked us in the storeroom," another guard explained. "Forgive us for being skeptical."

"I bet they're with the Titans!" another guard piped up suddenly.

"No," yet another argued. "The Titans haven't been seen all together in over a year. They're defunct."

By now some of the guards were standing, stretching their arms and legs. When at last the two teenagers had managed to free the remaining guards Victor stood and said: "We aren't with the Titans. But hopefully Robin and his mentor are upstairs fighting the bad guys as we speak."

"So it's true!" one guard exclaimed. "The Bat and the Bird are real!"

"Sure they're real," Garfield informed them, a little lost as to why the guards had thought differently. "Real enough to kick Two-Face's butt anyway."

"_Two-Face?_" half the guards questioned at once.

"Unfortunately," Victor assessed. "He's the one who paid off your buddies."

"And who are you?" the first guard asked.

"Just a pair of concerned citizens," Victor informed them. "Now… what do we do?"

"Do?" Gar questioned incredulously. "Dude, right now Two-Face is stealing the Egyptian exhibit! We gotta stop him!"

"And how do you figure we do that?" Victor asked, just as incredulous. "We're unarmed and out-manned."

"The silent alarms would have been tripped the minute these monitors were smashed," a guard informed them. "The police should be here by now."

"Yeah, well, the not so silent alarms would be going off now if Two-Face didn't disable them," Gar informed them. "Since the nutcase drove a hum-vee through the front doors."

Collectively the guards' jaws dropped.

"But the cops should be here by now," Victor reiterated. "And hopefully Batman, Batgirl, and Robin. They'll have the bad guys taken care of in no time."

"So what do we do in the meantime?" a guard asked.

"We get the heck outta dodge," Victor informed them.

Gar looked about ready to object.

"We can't do that," a guard protested. "We're supposed to protect the museum and its exhibits. It's our job."

Victor blinked. "Did anyone ever tell you that you take your job _way_ too seriously?"

"This ain't about the job no more," said another guard with finality. "This is about those two-faced sons of bitches that betrayed us to Two-Face."

A chorus of approval from the other guards.

"We can't go yet. Not without dishing out some payback!"

Garfield found himself cheering along with them.

"There's an untold number of men up there, armed at least with machine guns!" Victor exclaimed. "How exactly you expect to fight them with little more than righteous indignation?"

"We may have a bit more to our arsenal than that," a guard informed them. He walked over to what appeared to be a steel footlocker, pulled out a set of keys, and unlocked the lock. When he snapped the lid back he revealed a small cache of semi-automatic pistols. "In case we ever had to protect ourselves from terrorists," he explained when Victor and Garfield—and half the guards, gave him slack-jawed looks of disbelief.

"Dude!" Gar celebrated. "Now we're talking!"

Victor palmed a hand across his face tiredly. "This is insane…"

"But it's the right thing to do, Victor," Garfield said with quiet sincerity.

Victor sighed, having made up his mind already but having failed in all internal attempts to talk himself out of it. "I so hope I live to regret this."

Garfield cheered louder than ever.

"Okay boys, get 'em while they're hot!" And the guard began tossing firearms to his cohorts. Finally there was just one gun left. He offered it towards the teenagers.

"Uh, sorry," Gar deflected, once again embarrassed. "Wings and hooves and things make it kinda hard to use one of those."

The guard held it out to Victor.

"Keep it," he said. "I don't know how to use it anyway."

The guard shrugged and tucked it into his belt.

"Let's go, gentlemen!" And the guards fell into haphazard formation as they all but marched out through the monitor room and into the stairwell.

"Wait!" Victor called out from the rear of the group.

"What is it, dude?" Garfield asked, almost fearful that his friend was already having second thoughts.

"The most important thing is protecting the exhibit, right?"

"Of course," a guard replied.

Victor grinned. Then he walked briskly over to the wall and pulled the fire alarm. The high-pitched bell rang deafeningly loud.

"Brilliant!" A guard shouted in praise, and others joined him.

"What'd you do that for?" Gar voiced his question over the noise.

"Every exhibit is protected in the event of a fire by steel-plated walls that rise up to surround the displays," a guard explained. "It should protect from bullet fire as well."

"DUUUDE!"

"Just watch out," another guard warned. "As soon as the last protective plate is in place we're going to be drenched by the sprinklers."

"And if that don't distract Two-Face I don't know what will," Victor confessed, proud of himself in that moment.

"All right, men!" the guard shouted again. "We have work to do!"

And twelve overzealous museum guards marched up the stairwell towards the exhibit halls, followed closely by two metahuman teenagers.

* * *

**The exhibit hall**

The events seemed to unfold in slow motion.

Robin crouched.

Two-Face shouted: "Kill him!"

Robin took to the air in a giant, acrobatic leap.

Ten Tommy gun-toting thugs and seven pistol-carrying guards opened fire.

Bullets flew, bisecting the space that Robin's body just vacated.

Robin pivoted in midair above the gunfire as the bullets found their way into the walls and bulletproof glass casings of the exhibit hall.

The two ready birdarangs sailed through the air.

Robin reached the apex of his leap and pulled a gas pellet and his grappling hook from his utility belt as his mind absently registered two distinct yelps of pain when the projectiles hit their targets.

Two thugs dropped their guns, clutching at their injured hands.

A gas pellet slammed into the floor.

Robin fired his grappling launch into the ceiling as gas began to billow across the exhibit hall floor.

The grappling launch retracted, pulling Robin towards the rafters while below him, eighteen men began coughing uncontrollably.

Robin looked down to see a few of the thugs collapse.

And time resumed.

Robin crouched on a support beam high above the exhibit hall floor. He looked down and saw that most of the bad guys had scattered when the gas hit. Only five of them—four guards and a goon—were lying unconscious.

"Shoot him!" Two-Face roared, pointing to the rafters. "Shoot him now!"

Robin had to duck behind and I-beam as more bullets flew his way. Bullet fire ricocheted off the steel beams, pinning Robin behind his cover. Undaunted, Robin grabbed a flash-bang from his utility belt. He pulled the pin, hurled it blindly back down to the floor. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears, waiting for the blast.

**BANG!**

Robin spun out from behind the I-beam as soon as the grenade detonated. He saw that most of the bad guys had dropped their guns and hit their knees, and even Two-Face appeared disoriented. Unfortunately, the villain dove for cover behind an exhibit, and while Robin could see him, he could do nothing to stop him.

Acting quickly, Robin whipped out a set of bolos and his grappling gun. He fired the grapple into another section of the roof and swung down into throng of dazed thugs, flinging the bolos as he went.

The bolos whipped through the air and wound themselves around two dazed thugs who had the misfortune of kneeling too close to one another. The bolos wrapped around their torsos, binding their arms to their sides and smashing their bodies together. They fell over, entangled and semi-conscious, as Robin completed his swing and landed atop a tall exhibit case.

"Kill. Him. NOW!" Two-Face shouted, picking up a discarded Tommy gun and firing at the Boy Wonder.

However, Robin wasn't standing around long enough to be hit. He back flipped off the display case as bullets whizzed past his body. He grabbed another smoke pellet and threw it back at Two-Face. Robin landed and took cover behind an exhibit for the split second before the smoke pellet billowed forth its contents. The gunfire lessened as Two-Face and the bad guys nearest to him choked and gagged on the gas.

Robin stood and palmed two birdarangs in each hand. He threw them at the thugs still firing on him and four guns flew out of four separate pairs of hands.

The gas finally dissipated and Two-Face and two of his thugs were down for the count.

That left eight of eighteen still standing.

Those eight by now had moved around the exhibit case and fired at the Boy Wonder.

Robin ran miraculously between the bullets right over to another exhibit case. He leapt at the case, kicked off the glass, and redirected his momentum back the way he came. He caught the edge of the top of another case, and pulled himself up just as a spray of bullets impacted the glass, causing it to spider-web.

Robin leapt from the top of the case and fully outstretched himself mid-air as bullets flew by him, one even coming close enough to change the part of his hair. Robin ignored it as he grabbed his dangling jump line. One hand readied his other set of bolos as the other activated the winch inside the grappling gun and hauled him back up into the rafters.

Mid assisted flight, Robin flung the bolos. He saw them sail through the air and ensnare two more thugs who had the misfortune of being thrown off their guard by the immobilization of their boss. Their bodies slammed together as their arms were immobilized by the cord.

Robin was crouching on a support beam readying another gas pellet when suddenly an ear-splitting sound echoed throughout the exhibit hall.

Dick Grayson swore oaths in seven different languages as lights strobed and grates inlaid in the floor by the display cases slid opened. Then, amidst the barely audibly hiss of hydraulics, giant steel plates rose up through the holes in the floor to shield the exhibits from the fire the system believed was taking place.

Six bad guys remained standing, but not for long. As soon as the steel plates finish deploying, the sprinklers would kick in, and every single thug that succumbed to the gas would revive, including Two-Face.

In about three seconds the pelting water would render his gas pellets ineffective, and he would have to take on thirteen thugs plus Two-Face without the aid of bolos, for he'd just thrown his last one.

At least the steel plating would protect the exhibits, which Robin supposed was the most important thing.

The Boy Wonder grimaced and palmed another flash-bang…

* * *

**Outside the museum**

Raven levitated across the lawn towards the museum and landed nearly twenty feet away. Even from this distance she could hear the screaming of alarms and the barking of machinegun fire, but that was nothing next to what her soul-self detected.

Raven winced, shuddering slightly as she closed her eyes and tried to prevent her own emotions from becoming entangled in the chaos within. The fear she sensed was palpable, but the rage… the rage was worse.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Raven forced her soul-self into calmness. In order to brave this veritable black hole of negative emotion, she would need to completely and totally distance herself from all feeling. She needed to be detached.

_Azarath…_

Unfeeling.

_Metrion…_

Numb to the world.

_Xinthos…_

Only then could she enter the museum. Only then could she search out her friends and hopefully provide some sort of assistance. Only then… could she prevent the anger and fear from overwhelming her own emotional barriers and consuming her soul-self. The consequences of that… did not bear thinking about.

To prevent this from happening, Raven buried her soul-self deep within her mind, locked down by her strongest mental barriers. She meditated briefly, preparing herself, and then walked steadily forward.

Her body passed through the outer wall as though it wasn't even there.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Raven meditated again, forcing the onslaught of emotions to break against her mental barriers like water upon rock. They splashed away from her and left her soul-self untouched. The incredible amount of mental energy needed to accomplish this was taxing, however. Raven surmised that she should use her porting ability sparingly as she moved through the museum so as to not divert energy from shielding her soul-self.

She would need every once of strength she had to pull Garfield and Victor into the astral plane with her and facilitate their escape from whatever evils held them here.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Raven took a deep breath and allowed her mind to refocus on the real world as she exhaled. She heard the deafening cry of the alarm even before she opened her eyes. When she allowed herself to see again, she found herself standing in the museum gift shop. Knowing that the greatest concentration of negative emotions was coming from one of the exhibit halls, Raven left the gift shop on foot, not daring to waste the energy to levitate herself.

She walked into the vast expanse of a hallway and pulled the hood of her cloak back. She glanced left and right, trying to gauge the best way to go. However, no sooner had she made up her mind did the fire sprinklers shot to life. Even as Raven hastily pulled her hood back on, she was already drenched.

"Wonderful."

* * *

**The loading dock**

Batgirl barely had time to gasp—and even less time to react, before the five thugs in the back of the truck opened fire. She felt the heated rush of air as the bullets screamed passed her body, missing her sometimes by fractions of inches as she flung her body down to the pavement. Bullets ricocheted off the asphalt as she rolled under the truck and out of their line of fire.

"Get her!" one thug shouted as they all piled out of the truck, guns held at the ready.

The first two to make it to the pavement stooped to look under the truck, but if they were expecting to find Batgirl they were sorely disappointed. Instead all they saw was a small canister with a red flashing light.

"… The hell?"

FWISSSSSSSH!

The two unlucky thugs stumbled back, crying out in agony as they fell victim to a time-release teargas canister. They clutched at their faces as painfully involuntary tears shed themselves without mercy from burning eyes.

In the chaos that ensued, the three unaffected thugs failed to spot Batgirl, who had scrambled out from under the truck after discarding the teargas canister. As the thugs were either crying or panicking—or both, she ran to the truck's cab. She hopped up on the bumper, then the hood, then the roof of the cab, and then the roof of the trailer in quick succession.

As she ran the short length of the trailer's roof she pulled a pair of batarangs from her belt.

"Find her!" she heard one of them yell as she stood directly above them.

"Who me?" she asked sweetly, taking them all by surprise. Then with a scowl she threw the batarangs and knocked the machineguns out of two sets of hands. They yelped in pain as the lone thug still armed raised his gun and fired.

Batgirl dove off the top of the trailer, executing a bullet-dodging forward flip over the head of the firing thug, who couldn't pivot, aim, and shoot fast enough to keep up with her as she sailed over his head and landed behind him.

As soon as she landed, she dropped low and swept a leg out, knocking the thug's feet out from underneath him. He toppled over, shooting wildly into the air as he landed flat on his back.

The thug was falling as Batgirl was standing up. When they passed, Batgirl reached out and swiped the Tommy gun from his hands. Gun in hand, she dropped back into stance with it aimed at the two thugs who had just barely managed to pick up their guns from where the batarangs forced them to be dropped.

Batgirl stood unflinching with her pilfered Tommy gun pointed straight and steady at the two thugs, who for their part looked more than a little nervous.

Then suddenly she winked and threw the Tommy gun at them (minus the clip, which she had deftly removed when they were focusing on her eyes). Each thug reached out to catch it, causing them both to stumble and shoot wildly into the air.

Batgirl ducked and dove into a forward roll. She completed one and a half revolutions and shot to her hands, kicking her feet straight up. She caught one of the thugs square in the chest and with a cry of surprise (and most likely pain) he dropped both guns and stumbled back into the trailer.

Batgirl pivoted harshly on her hands and turned the downward momentum of her legs against the other thug. One foot caught him low in the chest and the other found his groin. The thug went cross-eyed and formed a high-pitched whimper in the back of his throat as he dropped to the ground in the fetal position.

Batgirl stood up just in time to see the unarmed thug she had tripped charging for her, hands held menacingly out before him. Batgirl danced to the right and dropped her shoulder, allowing the thug to plow into her. Then in classic Judo form, she used his own momentum against him and the unfortunate thug found himself sailing ass over teakettle into the trailer.

Batgirl wasted no time and grabbed one of the discarded machineguns. She quickly removed the clip, jumped up to grab the trailer door handle, and used her weight and momentum to pull the trailer door down with her. Then she quickly hooked the handle of the Tommy gun to the truck's bumper and slid the muzzle up through the trailer door handle until it was held in place by the trigger guard. This effectively locked the trailer door, trapping two of the thugs inside.

That left just three opponents, two of which were only now starting to regain their senses after being gassed, and one still writing on the ground muttering obscenities and clutching his groin.

"Okay boys," she said. "You can either give up now, or after more pain. Which'll it be?"

One of the gassed thugs pulled himself to his feet. Foregoing his weapon, he adopted a fight stance that looked to Batgirl like Kung Fu. Batgirl got into stance herself and tried not to smirk—her most recent fighting lesson from Batman had been how to counter various martial arts moves that she hadn't learned in her eight years of Judo. If thus guy wanted to test his luck, he was in for a world of hurt.

Batgirl took two deliberate steps forward, anticipating that the thug would perceive this as her opening move and try to preempt her.

She wasn't disappointed.

The thug ran in and tried for a flying kick. Then, just as Batman taught her, Batgirl quickly arched her back. In seemingly slow motion Batgirl executed a move she had previously thought possible only in the Matrix. She arched under and to the left of the incoming kick and saw the thug's foot go sailing above her skull, hitting nothing but air. From this slanted position she reached out with both hands and grabbed the airborne shin and pulled.

Centripetal force kept her in place as she swung the thug like a dervish using his own inertia. She heard a sickening pop as his knee gave way before she released him. As he went flying, Batgirl dropped out of her move prematurely and landed harshly on her back. Wincing, she stood back up and saw the thug rag dolling across the pavement. When he landed he tried to get up, but yelped in pain when he tried to move his knee, and he collapsed back down in a heap.

"Anyone else?" she challenged the two that were left, a deep scowl to her voice brought on by self-deprecation. She hadn't executed the move properly, even though the results were more than satisfactory. She was supposed to snap back up to standing, or a the very least pull a handspring out of it; but no, she had collapsed onto her back, the right muscles either not quite strong enough or not quite used to having to perform the feat. Good results or no, she knew that Batman would have made her try it again, and perfectionist that she was, she was angry with herself for the failure. Now she was ready to turn that anger against the two remaining criminals.

The thug on the ground, while still clutching at his groin, had stopped whimpering and was now just lying still. The other thug, eyes and face still red from the teargas, shifted from his sitting position to a kneeling position, and clasped his hands atop his head.

Batgirl's eyes narrowed.

"All right then."

She whipped out another pair of batcuffs and cautiously made her way over to the two thugs. She approached the kneeling one first, but as she reached a hand out to grab one of his wrists the thug jumped to his feet. One of his hands shot forward, but Batgirl had anticipated the move and dodged left. Then, without batting a lash, she reached into her utility belt and pulled out a pepper bomb, which she threw mercilessly into the thug's already sore face. The thug shrieked and both his hands flew to his face. He dropped to the ground, apparently convulsing in pain as his already sore eyes and soft facial skin were assaulted again.

With his hands held out for her so nicely as he shielded his face, Batgirl quickly slapped a batcuff on one wrist. This wrist she pulled viciously around behind the thug and held it there as she used her other hand to bring back his other wrist. The thug cried out in agony as his hands were no longer able to provide comfort to his face. She left him in a heap, hands cuffed behind his back, as she approached the other thug.

"I hit him twice in the face," she told that thug. "Considering where I hit _you_ the first time I don't think you want to be pressing your luck."

The thug—who had been playing possum—couldn't help it when his eyes shot opened wide. Perhaps it was reflex, but he too tried to scramble to his feet—or perhaps scramble to protect his family jewels. Batgirl took advantage of his open position and punched him squarely in the face, sending him back down to the pavement in an unconscious heap.

Batgirl stood up straighter and surveyed the scene. The two thugs trapped in the truck were banging to be let out, and the one she bodily hurled across the pavement was twitching slightly, unable to find a single position to lie in without his knee protesting it. Batgirl frowned, wondering briefly if he'd be able to get physical therapy in prison. Then there was the thug she'd just punched out, who was down for the count, and the one she'd pepper bombed, who was still writing slightly as he tried to press his face into the cool asphalt to soothe the burning. Then of course there was the one in the driver's seat.

Slowly Batgirl allowed herself to grin. Six thugs downed in about five minutes. That has to be a record for her solo work. Then, moment of pride over, she began her final clean up.

Batgirl grabbed a decel cable from her grappling launch and proceeded to truss up the two thugs closest to her. She tied them up back to back and used rope slack to bind each of their hands together. Then she removed the batcuffs from the still-whimpering thug whose face was nearly black with soot. Fortunately she knew that Batman didn't use any chemicals that would cause permanent damage, otherwise she might have actually worried that the thug would lose his sight from the two facial attacks.

Those two secure, Batgirl walked over to the third thug, who whimpered when she entered his field of vision. She unceremoniously handcuffed him behind his back and dragged him by the arms back to the truck.

"My leg," he groaned. "I think you broke my leg!"

To both shut him up and put him out of his misery Batgirl punched his lights out. Then she undid one side of the batcuffs and secured his hands over the cable binding the other two together. She redid the batcuffs and the thug was secured to his cohorts.

Well, she'd done as Robin asked. She's secured the truck. Two-Face wouldn't be able to use it as a getaway vehicle and these six goons wouldn't be able to help him escape. Now, according to her illustrious leader, she was supposed to make contact with some federal agents.

The cop's daughter in her frowned at the thought. _Why would the feds be here?_ The last time she checked, Central Park was still part of NYPD jurisdiction. Unless of course the international owners of the exhibits in the museum make museum property federal jurisdiction…

Then suddenly her frowned deepened. Dick Grayson was taking classes with Drs. Beach and Cabrini—the latter of whom confessed to her father that he'd received a visit from the Boy Wonder. Did Robin use Dick Grayson's professors as contacts to get his foot in the door?

"The FBI isn't exactly the GCPD," she muttered to herself. "So what are you playing at Short Pants?"

Just another of the myriad of questions Barbara would ask Dick once this all was over. Right now, she had a job to do.

* * *

**The exhibit hall**

Robin had timed the detonation of his flash-bang to coincide with the release of the sprinklers. The thugs just coming to collapsed back into quivering, whimpering heaps on the museum floor while those still standing briefly lost track of the teenaged vigilante's position in their moment of painful disorientation.

Seizing the window of opportunity, Robin launched himself off the support beam. He completed a forward flip and came out of the rotation at a slight angle so as to land feet-first smack into the chest of a distracted thug. The thug barely had time to grunt in pain before Robin's momentum pummeled him to the ground. His head smacked into the hard tile and he was out cold, and Robin felt a few ribs crack beneath his boots as he secured his landing.

It happened quickly, Robin landing on the goon, letting gravity do his work for him, and finishing his landing in a crouch atop the unconscious thug's chest, that it seemed as though there was no pause for consideration before the Boy Wonder launched into his next attack. He dove forward, sailing headlong into another thug who was just starting to regain his bearings. This thug—one of the guards, involuntarily pulled the trigger on his pistol as Robin barreled into him. He landed hard, dropping his gun in the process, as Robin rolled over him to coming to a less-than-graceful stop on the guard's far side. The guard rolled over to his hands and knees but Robin didn't allow him the privilege of reaching out for his weapon. He had already snatched it up and deftly removed the cartridge with one hand while landing a knockout punch with the other. As the thug went crashing down to the floor into oblivion Robin barely had time to pocket the cartridge before the rest of the thugs opened fire.

Robin dove to the side and rolled just ahead of the gunfire until he was behind the relative safety of one of the now nearly impervious display cases.

"Kill the little rat!" he heard Two-Face shout, his voice slightly husky but still full of rage. Robin barely restrained the groan. He had twelve armed thugs to contend with, and not a lot of options—the least of which being to stay in one place long enough for one of them to acquire a line of fire.

Robin went airborne just ahead of the gunfire that rained down on his former position. He grabbed the top of the display case and hoisted himself up quickly. In mere fractions of a second he had surveyed the scene around him, chosen his next target, and launched himself off of the display case before the thugs could reacquire their target.

Robin jumped straight down, pulling a pair of birdarangs out of his belt as he went. He landed in a crouch and then shot into the air again just in time for bullet fire to impact the case behind him. He leapt straight up and let the birdarangs fly—right into the gun-holding hands of the two closest thugs. Then on his way down he managed to stick his legs out behind him and use the steel plating in front of the display case as a springboard. He shot through the air and landed in a somersault that took him close enough to the thugs so that he could knock their feet out from under them. The poor thugs—who hadn't had time to move passed the stage of painful surprise where they clutch desperately at their smarting hands—crashed to the floor in a heap. As they went down, Robin bashed their heads together, rendering them both unconscious.

Unfortunately by now the remaining thugs were able to re-task themselves, and Robin found himself back-hand-springing out of the way of even more gunfire until he found himself behind another display case.

"Kill him now!" Another shout from Two-Face, this time more coherently—and a whole lot meaner. "Now I said!" And Robin had to launch his grappling hook, because the thugs were converging on him from all sides.

It was as his grapple was hoisting him above the anarchy below that Robin was greeted with a sight that made him not sure as to whether or not he should laugh or cry, for in that moment a new group of guards came running down the hallway towards the exhibit hall. There were twelve of them, all running at full tilt, guns already drawn. Thankfully (or perhaps not) they distracted the goons long enough for Robin to obtain meager cover in the rafters again.

"Who the _hell_ are they?" Two-Face barked his question.

His bought-off guards were stunned. "I thought you locked them in the basement!" one of them shouted to another.

That was all the answer Two-Face needed. He sent a burst of machinegun fire at the new arrivals, who had only just made it to the exhibit hall entrance.

"Cover!" one of the new arrivals shouted, and they all dove out of the way, even as Two-Face's goons caught on and joined in on the shooting.

Robin's breath caught in his throat as he watched them. Even as they found cover, not all of them escaped the barrage of bullets that sailed their way. The cries of pain couldn't be heard of the bark of gunfire, the scream of the alarm, or the pelting of the sprinklers, but he knew it well enough. He saw the red splatters in the streaming puddles of artificial rain.

Ten goons remained, but now… now there were innocents to worry about. Guards who—judging by the reaction of their former colleagues—weren't meant to be here for this. Now every bullet counted, for the ones that didn't hit Robin could easily find their way into innocent flesh, and that—Dick swallowed past the hate welling in his throat—_was not allowed!_ No one, but _no one_ will die tonight because of that accursed villain! _Not any more. Not on my watch!_

Robin spared himself a moment to use his vantage point to check on all the guards that had so swiftly (yet not swiftly enough) had taken cover by the entrance to the exhibit hall. Of the twelve, five of them were bleeding. Three appeared to have been grazed, a fourth was clutching at his leg while a buddy was tearing strips of his own shirt for bandages, and the fifth was alone, hands firmly pressed into his abdomen as blood seeped out around and between his fingers.

Dick's eyes burned in hatred as he stared through the Starlite lenses of his mask. Two-Face. Was. _HIS!_

In some mockery of cheesy westerns, the guards and the goons had all taken covered positions—even Two-Face. The odds were even—ten against ten—when the shootout began.

Robin smirked ever so slightly when he realized that the opposing gunfire would keep Two-Face busy while he stealthily dropped in on the bad guys from behind…

Just as he was about to leave his perch to facilitate that objective, Dick caught sight of something that nearly made him break concentration and tumble off the two-inch wide lattice beam he hurrying across. Halfway down the hallway, partially taking cover behind and information booth, were Garfield Logan and Victor Stone, staring into the Holocaust that the exhibit hall threatened to become like guilty deer caught in the headlights.

_They must have freed the guards…_ Dick surmised, seeing that as the only plausible explanation for the drastic turn of events that led to the current situation. All he could do though, was hope to God that they stayed put and far away from bullet fire. Robin could ask the hows and whens and whys later, after Two-Face was safely in custody.

With a malicious grin, Robin perched above the thug farthest away from the exhibit hall entrance—and therefore at the very back of his pack, and made ready to jump…

* * *

**The hallway**

"I saw one of them get shot!" Garfield shouted above the screaming alarm, his water-slicked hands grabbed onto Victor's arm and was shaking it the way small children do when they desperately need the attention of a weary adult.

"I _know!_" Victor shot back in tense irritation, ripping his hand away.

Garfield's frantic motions stilled. He looked up at Victor, who seemed to tower over him, with wide and pleading eyes. "What do we do, Vic?" he asked almost painfully.

Victor's hardened expression fell slightly as once again he was reminded of how impossibly young his best friend could appear at times. "I don't know," he admitted, still tense but now with the added airs of fatigue and, quite possibly, defeat.

"Can you see anything?"

"I wish I could, dawg, but I haven't figured out how to design an eyepiece with x-ray vision."

"Heh," Gar laughed without humor. "You'd be a regular mechanical Superman."

"Don't even joke about it man," Victor dismissed ruefully.

Gar simpered and returned his gaze to the exhibit hall entryway. "Dude… it's like the O.K. Corral in there!"

"Well what did you expect? Those guards went charging in like the damn cavalry or something. What were they thinking? That they could waltz right in and arrest the bad guys?"

Garfield's expression hardened into grim lines. "Rushing headlong into a fight with Two-Face is an excellent way to get a dude killed."

"I hope you're wrong about that," Victor told his friend plainly. "Cuz that's what the cops are going to do when they finally get their butts in here."

"Where in the _Hell_ is Batman?" Gar ground out in frustration. "People are, like, _dying_ in there!"

"Well if everything they say about him is true, then he'll show up when we least expect it."

"In that case, dude, the guy's already late."

Victor managed a brief laugh, but then winced at a particularly long burst of gunfire. "C'mon Gar. We should get outta here while we still can."

Garfield shook his head determinedly. "No way dude. The bad guys might win the fight, and if they come back this way there'll be no one to stop them."

Victor half sighed, half groaned in frustration. "A three thousand year old Egyptian _garage sale_ ain't worth your life, dawg!"

"It's not about the exhibit, Vic," Gar stoically informed his friend.

"_Oh_ man, you can_not_ still be going on about Two-Face!"

"He won't escape, Vic. Not this time."

"Would you _listen _to yourself? Gar, this ain't no weekend warrior Monday morning quarterback type shit here!"

"You think I don't know that?" Gar shot back. "I'm not staying here like some power-tripping videogame addict who can't tell the difference between fantasy and reality. I _know_ those guns are real and I _know_ Two-Face will kill whoever he has to ta get what he wants. _Believe me_, I know."

"Then what _are_ you staying here for."

"Justice." Garfield practically spat the word.

"Or revenge for all the bad shit you've had to live through," Victor came right back, his voice oddly calm.

Garfield opened his mouth to protest, but suddenly found himself without something to say. Then it appeared as though all of the fight withered out of him, like a deflating balloon. He released a tired sigh and sank to his knees, splashing softly in the sprinkler puddles as he landed.

Victor crouched down in front of him, yet even in this position he still seemed to tower above his petit green friend. "Look Gar, we're not the law, and we're not superheroes. We've done all we can here. Now we've got to trust that the NYPD and the Bat troupe can handle it. Don't give the villain the satisfaction of killing you for your good intentions."

Garfield sighed again, and finally looked up into his friend's eyes. "When I was in the orphanage—the last time I was in the orphanage… I was about fifteen I guess. I hated bouncing between foster homes, with Galtry and the Daytons fighting over their mutual visitation rights and whatnot. Well, I was fifteen and metahuman, so I…" Garfield seemed almost embarrassed to continue, but Victor waited patiently, even as pelting water and barking machinegun fire tried to steal their attention.

"I wrote to the Titans, Vic—you remember when that Kent reporter started the outreach program for troubled kids, the one where they could write to their favorite teenaged superheroes via the Daily Planet so that Superman could deliver the letters and the Titans could go all Dear Abby? Well, I wrote to them, told them that I was metahuman and that my powers could really help them and stuff. I could live in their hideout and not have to worry about lawyers, court dates, foster homes, orphanages…" Gar sighed again, but it was pained. These memories obviously weren't pleasant ones.

"Well a few weeks later my social worker handed me a letter—post marked from Central City. I so totally couldn't believe it, Vic! _Kid Flash_ wrote to me—_me!_ Some stupid green nobody from Gotham!" Gar blinked, however slowly, and somehow Victor already knew what he was going to say. "They turned me down, Vic. Said I needed parental permission and all that. Heh. Yeah right, like that was ever going to happen. No one would have known who to ask for it!"

"We aren't heroes, Gar," Victor said solemnly, with the faintest hints of regret.

Sighing again, Garfield ran a scrawny hand through his shaggy wet green hair.

"Vic, you're a human cyborg and I'm a green changeling. If that doesn't give us the right to try and be heroes, I dunno what does."

Victor spent a seeming eternity regarding the little green boy who had somehow managed to become his best friend. "You really feel strongly about this, don't you," he concluded.

Garfield nodded, slightly yet deliberately. "Two-Face… Harvey Dent… He hurts people, Vic. I know, because he's hurt me. He shouldn't be allowed to ruin other people's lives. I was lucky—I'm okay now, really. Galtry's behind bars and the Dayton's are really great. But other people—like that guard that got shot, they aren't as lucky as me. I can't just walk away, and wonder for the rest of my life if there was something more I could have done, every time I hear that he's hurt another innocent person. I understand if you want to go—you probably should. We need to, like, call some ambulances and stuff. But I'm staying, Vic. I'm sorry."

Victor remained quietly pensive for a moment, then he sighed and palmed his face with a tired hand. "Are you sure you shouldn't be studying law yourself?" he asked rhetorically. Gar puzzled at his meaning, so he elaborated: "All arguments aside, if I can't convince you to leave this up to the pros, then, well, at least I know I tried. But you're my best friend, and I know _I_ can't wonder for the rest of my life about what happened here after I left you here alone."

Victor barely had time to pause for breath after that sentence before Garfield's narrow arms were attempting to encircle him in a titanium-crushing hug.

"Yeah, yeah, very nice," Victor dismissed embarrassedly, removing himself from the awkward embrace. "So, what's the plan?"

"Uh… plan?"

Garfield barely squeaked the word, his earlier uncertainty returning ten-fold. However, Victor heard him loud and clear, and his eyes widened.

"Vic?"

"Whoa…"

"What?"

"The alarm…"

"Huh? … OOOOOH! Hey, someone shut the alarm off!"

"SSSSSHHHHH!" Victor shushed him, although the act was highly unnecessary considering the raining sprinklers and the staccato bursts of gunfire made it quite impossible for them to be overheard by anyone in the exhibit hall, even without the cover of the alarm. "I can't believe we missed that…" Victor mused, still in awe that he didn't notice the obvious change, having been too engrossed in his conversation with Garfield.

"Uh, dude? Did you also notice we missed it getting dark in here?"

"Huh?" Victor looked up to the ceiling and saw that they fluorescent lights were out. Instead, random track lights were illuminating the hallway, but just barely, just enough to see. "They must have cut the building's power."

"That means the feds are here," Gar said with surprising certainty.

"And how'd you figure that?"

"Dude! Haven't you seen _Die Hard_?"

Victor blinked. "That's Hollywood!"  
"That don't make it wrong."

"Heh. Well if _you're_ John McClane then I'm—"

"Zeus?"

"Yeah—No, wait! AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHH!"

And Garfield's laughter was momentarily heard above the gunfire.

* * *

**Below the exhibit hall**

The sprinkler water puddled in the hallway, soaking Raven's sneakers. The cold, squishy feel to her socks matched the one her cloak gave her, and she found herself wishing she'd brought her weatherproof one.

_Not like I knew it was going to rain indoors tonight_, she mused dejectedly.

The hallway was dark. The emergency lighting cast eerie shadows that seemed to melt and play through the cascading sprinkler water. Minus the shower, Raven nearly smirked to think that otherwise she would have felt right at home, especially now that the alarm had stopped blaring its useless warning. Now the only sound was the soft pitter-patter of manmade rain as it continued to drench the hallway, broken by the occasional burst of machinegun fire.

Raven forced all extraneous thought aside. She had a job to do, and successful completion required her utmost attention. Victor Stone and Garfield Logan were in here somewhere, but there was such a high level of volatile emotion concentrated in a single place that she was finding it difficult to discern anything concrete. Neither of them were injured—that much she was sure of. But their emotions? Those were scrambled somewhere in the giant vortex of pain, anger, and fear that was her destination.

As the water continued to pelt her, Raven realized that she was walking through a hurricane. And now she was standing just below the heart of it. She glanced up at the ceiling, allowing her hood to fall back off her head. She had to squint because of the water splashing on her face, but soon her fretted expression smoothed over into stoicism.

Raven drew her cloak in around her.

"Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…"

And Raven levitated. Up through the water towards the ceiling. Above her head, a black iris opened in the ceiling, making ready to swallow her whole, and then spit her back out again.

Into the eye of the storm.

* * *

AN-The Teen Titans existed first as Robin, Speedy, Aqualad, Wondergirl, and Kid Flash. This story is ignoring the many comings and goings of various other Silver Age teammates before the team's 'final' break up, so here the 'old' Titans consisted of only those five members and the 'new' Titans will be the ones from the cartoon.

AN2- Beast Boy did in fact petition the Titans for membership, but he was denied based on his age and the lack of parental consent. He joined later, of course.


	14. Raging

**Outside the museum**

The museum was surrounded by a virtual sea of law enforcement. Both uniformed and plain-clothed officers swarmed between patrol cars, SWAT vans, and checkpoints. More than half the officers had weapons trained on the museum, and the SWAT teams in full garb were growing antsy in their haphazard clusters. For them, deployment usually meant taking action, not waiting for the action to come to them; but that's what their orders were, because for as long as the status quo remained unchanged, their commander was content to take his orders from Captain Booker.

It gave the snipers the chance to get into position.

From her relatively sheltered surveillance point, Batgirl began to gain a newfound appreciation for her father's leadership. The NYPD's efforts could be described as overly cautious at best and severely disorganized at worst. Deciding to save lives by waiting for a criminal to come to them might have been a respectable decision under any other circumstance, but Batgirl knew that you cannot give Harvey Dent that kind of advantage and expect to win. You may stop him from stealing the exhibit, but you can bet your life that he has a far better plan of escape than riding out with the truck. Unfortunately, it appeared as though whoever was in charge did not share the same views.

Batgirl was all too aware of the jurisdictional turf wars that plagued joint law enforcement operations. Her father has complained about it often enough, especially when it involved the attempted apprehension one of Gotham's infamous rogues. Time and again the feds proved too ill equipped to handle the task and if it weren't for the Bat crew's clandestine involvement in those instances the consequences—and the death tolls, would have been disastrous. The feds effectively put their own careers above the greater good because they were arrogant enough to believe that they had all the answers. It boiled her blood to think that they wanted credit and praise for something that her father and his officers suffer through without fanfare, and so she has inherited her father's knee-jerk mistrust of any federal agent in charge of an investigation.

Unfortunately, Robin had assigned her to liaise with them.

Batgirl bristled. How on Earth was she supposed to mange that without getting shot at and/or arrested?

Well, first she would have to find them.

Batgirl kept to the shadows and surveyed the crowd, her eyes resting momentarily on each plain-clothed person out there but dismissing them instantly. Federal agents carried themselves differently than police officers did—or at the very least, they dressed better. However, she saw no one fitting that description in any location that might have served as the command base. In fact, it looked to her that a cop was in charge—a captain, by the look of his hat. If the feds were in charge of this operation then why weren't they looking the part?

Batgirl released a frustrated sigh. Robin said they were out here somewhere, and though she questioned how he knew that, she wasn't about to disbelieve him. No, the feds were here. She just had to find them…

_There!_

Batgirl's eyes widened as they zeroed in on her target. A man in a long dark coat was standing apart from the rest and arguing heatedly into his cell phone. At this distance she couldn't make out the conversation, but the look fit. Not to mention that federal agents are known for being openly hostile and indignant if their right to declare jurisdiction was called into question. That would explain why everyone was taking orders from a mere police captain. Jurisdiction or not, the NYPD had their own ideas of who should be in charge, and they follow their own.

Batgirl nodded to herself and reached into her utility belt. For every added danger that being the commissioner's daughter brought to her vigilantism, there was an added bonus. A few months ago she had 'liberated' a few electronic devices from police surplus. After removing everything that labeled the electronics as having ever belonged to the GCPD and hacking the surplus database to remove the evidence of a shortage, Batgirl had labored tirelessly in a quick-job clean-room environment in her walk-in closet on a case modification that would have made even Batman proud had she actually shown it to him. Now she had what appeared to be an overlarge flip phone with headset that reported the number of a payphone in St. Louis; however it was also equipped with a signal tracer and de-scrambler. She pointed the antenna at the federal agent and pressed a button. The display screen blinked a few times and then, digit by digit, the agent's cell phone number blipped onto the screen.

Half a minute later and the agent hung up his phone in apparent disgust. As soon as he did so Batgirl dialed the number.

"Hernandez!" A deep voice barked through the earpiece.

"_Special Agent_ Hernandez?" Batgirl asked with mild yet emotionless inflection. She watched as he jerked the phone away from his ear. He studied the call information and made a face at the number.

"Who is this?" he asked incredulously.

"Send uniforms to the loading bay," Batgirl directed, ignoring his question. "You will find three criminals apprehended beside a box truck, one inside the truck's cab, and two in the trailer."

"What—"

Batgirl continued as if he hadn't spoken. "The truck will need to be towed and be advised that some of the criminals will need medical attention."

Hernandez's eyes widened. "You're with Batman, aren't you. Are you Batgirl?"

After a few moments of silence he checked his phone. The call had already ended.

Batgirl heard him curse from her hiding spot, but after a few moments Hernandez wandered off, presumably to see to it that the six thugs by the loading dock were taken care of. Batgirl smiled, pleased with herself and her accomplishments, but the smile quickly fell. Robin had ordered her to stay outside of the museum.

Batgirl seethed at that. Short Pants giving _her_ orders? Following his lead in a fight is one thing—that was teamwork; but him ordering her around like she was some sort of minion?

"Not in this lifetime," she muttered. No way in hell was she staying out of the fight. Two-Face and God-only-knows _how_ many goons are still inside the museum, and the only one currently in any position to oppose them is Robin. He may be second only to Batman, and he may have been able to hold his own until backup arrived, but now she knew something Robin didn't: backup wasn't coming. His federal agent friend wasn't in charge, and the cavalry wasn't going to charge in to provide much needed assistance—or even a mild diversion.

Robin was most likely holding off Two-Face while waiting for help that wasn't going to come.

Batgirl couldn't deny the knot of worry that suddenly formed in the pit of her stomach, nor how real it suddenly felt now that she knew it was _Dick Grayson_ that was on his own in there.

Barbara Gordon shoved those thoughts aside and glanced back at the museum. If she needed to justify her decision, she could always tell him that the situation had changed since they had parted company and that initiative was called for. However, she didn't really care how much he resented her involvement. When the Bat Boys are in trouble Batgirl's place is at their side, and she wouldn't take no for an order.

She was going in.

* * *

**The exhibit hall**

A black iris opened in the floor and a cloaked figure emerged, safe in the shadow of her soul self and nearly invisible. Raven found herself standing behind an exhibit case near the entrance to the hall, which fortuitously protected her from the incoming fire of Two-Face and his goons.

She wasn't standing for long.

This was the epicenter. Here the emotions were the strongest. Here they didn't swirl about her as she kept herself protected. As soon as she materialized they slammed into her from all sides like converging tidal waves, obliterating every last mental shield and sending her crashing to her knees.

Kneeling, Raven clutched desperately at her temples, trying to regain some modicum of control. "Azarath… Metrion… Nnnng-_aaaaaaaaah!_"

It was too much. Everything was too much. Too much anger. Too much pain. Too much fear. Raven's face was scrunched up in pain and she moved her hands back to cover her ears in a vain attempt to prevent the emotions from reaching her, as though they were merely a cacophony of loud noise. Her naked soul self buckled under the oppressive weight and her head bowed down to the floor. Raven huddled into a tight little whimpering ball as her soul self cried in agony.

"Ah—Az—Azarath…" she tried to chant, but she couldn't even hear herself over the psychic din. "Azar…" She moaned, as though begging for help from someone she knew couldn't offer it.

As the sprinklers continued their merciless rain, the emotional storm inside the exhibit hall wailed around her, slamming repeatedly into her third eye and knocking her senseless. She had never felt so much emotion so quickly, and all of the progress she had made these past few months at adapting to the presence of abundant human thought and emotion was forgotten.

"Azarath…" She tried again, brushing a strand of wet hair behind her ear from where it had sat plastered to her forehead. The emotions swirled and lashed like streamers in a gale, the cacophonous sound of thought as eloquent as a howling wind to the point where she couldn't even hear herself speak.

The emotions crashed over her in pounding waves or flailed at her like whips. In a repetitive and jumbled rush she felt anger… fear… pain… greed… hatred… desire…

Raven braced herself on her hands and knees. "Nnnngg… M—M—Metrion…"

Beneath the oppressive weight of the storm she struggled to find her center. If she wasn't careful then soon her own emotions would be laid bare to this torment as opposed to just her mind, and the consequences of that—

"_Xinthos!_"

A pulse of psychic energy flew out of Raven's soul self in a wave, sending water flying outwards from an obsidian bubble that beat back the emotional tide. In that momentary vacuum Raven's soul self felt the echoes of peace and stillness that should have been. They were her lifelines and reached out blindly towards them.

She didn't find them.

* * *

Robin descended from his perch in the rafters in the most basic way.

He dropped straight down.

The freefall was incredible. For a few seconds time seemed to stretch into eternity. The air rushed over his ears and sound fell away into imagined silence. His body stretched out, preparing for impact—feet first—every muscle loose and ready to snap into action to absorb the shock of meeting the ground.

A sudden rush and the sound of screeching—the cry of a wounded bird.

_SKREEEE!_

Gone as quickly as it came.

Robin didn't have time to contemplate it as he suddenly hit the ground. Every muscle tensed as he dropped into a crouch and rolled forward, absorbing the impact over his entire body. He came up right behind the rear-most thug, just as planned. A quick jab to the back of his head and the thug dropped like a sack of potatoes. Robin made quick work of removing the thug's bootlaces and using them to bind his hands and then made the futile gesture of wiping the cold water away from his eye mask.

Only nine to go…

* * *

When Robin had suddenly dropped from the sky, dodging bullets to get the drop on a bad guy, at the last second his descent bisected her psychic reach. Raven gasped when suddenly—briefly—her mind touched his.

A rush of deafening silence hit her ears and the swirling sea of emotion calmed. Raven held her breath at the sudden, unexpected change, and she felt—

But just as suddenly Robin slipped through her reach, continuing his descent to the ground and the storm was back again.

_Wh—what?_

In this sea of violently churning emotions, there was calm. In this deafening din of thought, there was silence. Raven needed to find that place again—needed it for her sanity. In that moment she realized that, however the mysterious pocket of serenity came into being, it would be her temporary salvation.

Wildly her soul self groped around, snatching onto emotions as she felt them and dismissing those that wouldn't help her. She mentally snatched tendrils of feeling out of thin air, desperately searching. She found anger, and it burned her. Fear shrank back away from her. Pain shivered. Greed clutched at her and didn't want to let go. Hatred screamed, lashing out. Desire trembled, and moaned when she released it.

But where was—

_There!_

Blindly she grasped a hold of what she was looking for. It felt as though she'd just grabbed a live electric wire and Raven's breath left her in a rush. It was hard and unyielding, but it wasn't dark like the rest, and it wasn't subjective. Whoever it belonged to, this emotion was selfish, and took no heed of her presence.

With a yank of the streamer Raven pulled herself towards that mind and found the silence she had detected before.

The eye of the storm… is its calmest point.

Raven's soul self was suddenly floating, weightless. Free.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos… _

Raven meditated in that calm silence.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos… _

She felt the wholeness of its purpose.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos… _

She gave herself over to the serenity of its assurance.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos… _

She regained her strength and found her center.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

She drew the bubble of emotion tight in around herself, existing completely within its boundaries.

_Azarath…_

The bubble became a pocket, and the pocket became a shroud.

_Metrion… _

Protected, Raven was back in full control, no longer threatened by the onslaught.

_Xinthos…_

Coming out of her meditative state, Raven reopened her third eye… and gasped. That emotion she had found—the one she had taken up as a shield and embedded herself within for protection. The borrowed feeling she hadn't yet felt until the new moment of conscious awareness she recognized now for what it was.

Determination.

Raven unclenched her body and struggled to her knees, panting heavily as she recovered from the physical manifestations of the onslaught. Finally she sat back on her heels and opened her eyes, truly seeing the exhibit hall for the first time. She saw the chaos and the destruction, the unconscious bodies and those still fighting. She saw the chunks torn from the walls where bullets had impacted…

Then she saw _him_.

Robin.

He was glowing faintly in her vision, softly illuminating the artificial rain that pelted his body. It was an aftereffect of her touch on his mind that only she could see. Raven sat back on her heels in the puddle that had formed around her, watching him in a mix of awe and feigned understanding. She saw him finish binding an unconscious man's hands with what appeared to be shoelaces, his face set in grim lines as sweat mixed with the water that beaded on his brow.

He was determined. Raven felt it. It sang throughout her entire body. Deliberate silence… and determination.

Ever so slightly, Raven smirked. The presence of the Gotham vigilante gave her the confidence to believe that not all was as lost and hopeless as it felt beneath the surging tide. Instinctively she knew that the famed Boy Wonder would emerge victorious, if only because his determination wouldn't allow anything less, and Raven did not believe for a moment that such determination could be denied. Not when she felt its power first hand.

As Raven saw Robin madly dash between the flying bullets to approach another armed thug, she knew that he was completely oblivious to her presence. The exhibit case hid her well from the room. This was fortuitous because she knew that she needed to _stay_ hidden. Raven felt strength returning to her limbs, galvanized as she was by Robin's determination. Garfield and Victor weren't in this room as she had originally supposed. They were somewhere very close, but not here. She needed to find them—that's what she came here for. She needed to meditate, here in the echoes of Robin's silent mind, fueled, protected, and assured by a determination that (at first) was not her own.

Raven steeled herself, rocking forward on her knees and bringing her hands down to the floor. She was all set to shove herself to standing, but the soft slashing noise caught her attention. Startled, Raven looked down at her hands… and her eyes widened.

The puddle they had softly splashed in had run red...

* * *

**Outside the museum**

Batgirl ran back around to the side of the museum. While she has been to the Met before, she's never seen the Egyptian exhibit and so has no idea where it is. Therefore trying to catch up to the action by charging in through the front door—which was heavily guarded by now anyway—was just about as useless as trying to sneak in through the loading dock. There was only one logical choice: to go through the same window that Robin did. Hopefully he chose it because it led directly to the exhibit hall. Otherwise she would just have to follow the sound of gunfire.

Batgirl readied her grappling gun, aimed at the window ledge, and fired…

* * *

**The exhibit hall**

Raven's palms came away red. She hadn't noticed it before, but blood had run into the puddle she was kneeling in. It couldn't have been hers, so who—

"_Unghhh…_"

Raven's head snapped around. There was a man lying on the ground, not a foot away from her. He was clutching weakly at his abdomen as blood seeped out through his fingers to spread a dark stain across the water-slicked marble floor. As soon as Raven focused on him his pain danced up and down her nervous system.

"Nnnnng." Raven winced, involuntarily hugging herself.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Mentally she reached out, finding Robin's determination again.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

She wrapped it about her soul self like a security blanket and used it to dispel the other man's pain.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Soon it no longer affected her. She still felt it, but she didn't _feel_ it.

_Azarath……… Metrion……… Xinthos_...

Raven ceased her mini-meditation and looked to the injured man again. She saw that he was one of the museum guards, and he had taken a bullet to the stomach. Raven felt the echoes of pain within her; stomach acid mixed with the blood and was burning its way out, threatening to corrode the surrounding tissues and organs in a slow process of macabre digestion. An incredibly painful way to die, but mercifully he'd bleed to death first.

Raven's eyes suddenly narrowed. Maybe it was because she still felt enervated by Robin's determination, or maybe it was because Azar would have wanted it, but Raven was suddenly _determined_ not to let this man die. Slowly she crawled to his side, not caring about the blood that now stained her knees and robe. When she reached him she saw that he was barely conscious, twitching slightly from the pain and moaning softly.

"Be still," she directed stoically. She sat back on her heels again, quickly wiped a palm on her soaked robe, and, closing her eyes, touched it to the man's forehead. She cupped the contour of his head softly and instantly his movement stilled.

Raven frowned. He only had a few minutes left.

_Azarath……… Metrion……… Xinthos………_

Raven sent waves of empathic healing energy into the wounded guard. Mentally she found where the bullet had come to rest and discovered the extent of the damage it had caused. She couldn't remove it easily, and she didn't have time for the concentration that would take, so instead she focused on sealing the hole in his stomach. Mentally she saw tendrils of obsidian form inside the man's abdomen. They latched onto his stomach and knit themselves together, encouraging the tissue to stretch and meld, sealing themselves with the cool heat of telekinesis.

When the hole in his stomach closed, Raven shifted her energies to repairing the damaged blood vessels. There were a lot of them. The smaller ones healed almost instantly, but the larger veins and arteries took a bit of time. When they were all healed, she sent her obsidian energy after the stomach acid, and together they evaporated into nothingness.

There was nothing more she could do for him.

Raven opened her eyes and withdrew her hand. The guard won't die from his injuries now, but he's not out of the woods yet. He'll need surgery to remove the bullet, and he'll die without a transfusion, but now he should last until help can get to him.

At the very least, Raven had sent him into a deep sleep, so he was no longer in pain.

Drained from the exertion, Raven collapsed down into the lotus position. She needed to meditate again. To recover. Once when she was fifteen a bicyclist had been hit by a car in front of her apartment. The woman had suffered a broken leg and several broken ribs, but Raven had been able to heal her. She couldn't set bones as well as a trained doctor, but the woman who haled her an angel was able to make it to the emergency room under her own power. That was the last time she's had to heal someone empathically for something more serious than a paper cut, and it hadn't been as exhausting as this.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Hidden in plain sight Raven slipped back into the comforting embrace of meditation.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

She collected more of Robin's aura to herself and felt her strength slowly return.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

The emotional storm raged on, but hidden and isolated Raven was immune.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Almost strong enough to summon Garfield and Victor into her soul self and port them to safety.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

* * *

The villain known as Two-Face grimaced as he loaded the last clip into his machine gun. Across the way the museum guards were still taking potshots at him and his men, but fortunately they hadn't managed to hit anyone.

Unfortunately, neither had his men.

Two-Face glanced behind him as he brought his machine gun up. The little twerp had managed to subdue all but four of his men by now, dropping in from behind them at opportune moments when the incoming fire had them otherwise occupied.

The villain stroked the trigger of the machine gun and weighed his options. On the one hand, the odds of him escaping with what he came fore were rapidly approaching hopeless. If he cut out now—turned tail and ran while the bird was still busy with his hired help, he could stand a decent chance of escaping the clutches of the vastly inept NYPD. Even as a villain, Harvey Dent never lost respect for Jim Gordon's police force, and he knows how poorly others measure up.

Then there was the other side of the coin. Two-Face _hates_ running from a fight. Fleeing from the Batman is humiliating enough, but Robin? The _bird?_ If word of that gets out he'd never be able to show either face around Arkham again.

Of course, the same would hold true if he was apprehended by the NYPD. He might as well be caught in Blüdhaven!

Stay and risk capture, or run and risk capture. Those were his options.

"Only on thing to do," the villain muttered as he fished into his pocket for the infamous coin.

* * *

Robin dashed through the incoming bullet fire and crept up behind an unsuspecting thug. Then swiftly and silently he reached out and grabbed the thug in a chokehold from behind. Robin's forearm pressed diligently against the thug's windpipe and the man dropped effortlessly into unconsciousness, his Tommy gun clanging to the floor.

Robin deftly removed the clip, and then set about unlacing the man's Nikes. Twenty seconds later and Robin was crouched beside the bound and unconscious thug, waiting for his next opportunity. There were only four opponents left, including Two-Face. Hopefully the guards won't run out of ammo before he has the chance to take them down.

With grim determination Robin set his sights on the next bad guy, who was an easy handspring's distance ahead, off to the right at one o'clock…

* * *

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Hidden behind the display, Raven levitated in the lotus position. She was hovering nearly a foot off the ground, eyes closed in meditation.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

Robin's determination was galvanizing. Her strength was well on its way to replenishing itself. Like a seed in a fertile womb, Raven's soul self fed off the Boy Wonder's emotions, used them to nourish her, to replace that which was lost._Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

She was almost completely recovered. Soon her soul self would be sated. Soon she would be strong enough to be confident enough to disentangle her mind from Robin's. Then she could shift her focus outwards, away from herself and towards the psychic signatures of Garfield and Victor, who were still hiding somewhere, close yet out of reach.

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

_Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…_

* * *

Batgirl's grappling hook embedded itself in the masonry of the window ledge. After a quick yank to be sure that it would hold her weight, Batgirl scaled the wall. A swift and silent wraith in the night, she hovered just below the shattered window—shattered from Robin's earlier dramatic entrance.

She easily heard the harsh staccato bursts of gunfire.

"At least this is the right window…" Batgirl murmured to herself, trying somewhat ineffectively to mask her worry. Then with a sigh—somewhere between hopeful and pained, she reached up and around the jagged shards of windowpane to release the lock. That done, Batgirl then pulled the two useless halves of window frame out until they opened wide enough for her to leap through. A quick glance heavenward and Batgirl pulled herself the rest of the way up to the window ledge, getting ready to make an entrance of her own.

* * *

The coin flipped in the air and Two-Face snatched it. He turned it over once in his palm and slapped it to the back of his other hand.

"Hmph. Bad side."

Two-Face scowled, but did as the coin dictated.

The Bird was just about to take down another of his thugs, so he was pleasantly distracted, and the irritating guards apparently can't hit the broadside of a barn.

The scowl contorted into an off-kilter smirk. Now was the perfect time.

A wild burst of fire from the machine gun and the villain leapt out from behind his cover, preparing to make a run for it.

* * *

Somehow Robin managed to find the only dirty security guard on the face of the Earth that was also an accomplished martial artist. The man had somehow sensed Robin sneaking up behind him. He whirled about to face him, firing his pistol as he went.

Robin dove into a somersault to avoid the shot and came up in prime position to strike out with a fist to the thug's groin.

The thug managed to block Robin's fist just in time, and the blow aimed for his family jewels glanced off and struck his thigh.

The thug grunted and dove into an arcing roll over the Boy Wonder's head. He came out of the somersault in an awkward crouch—slipping some on the wet marble, and managed to aim and fire at where Robin had been squatting a moment before.

Unfortunately for him, Robin was no longer there.

The instant that the thug took to the air, Robin dove to the left. When the thug landed and aimed his pistol Robin already had a birdarang ready. The thug had barely pulled the trigger before he found the gun knocked painfully out of his hand by the deadly projectile. He grabbed his hand, wincing and momentarily stunned to be thusly disarmed.

Robin wanted to make sure he stayed that way. He dove forward, trying to reach the pistol. Unfortunately it landed closer to the thug, who recovered quickly enough to make a dive for the gun as well.

They both grabbed the gun at the same time. The thug's hand found the handle, and Robin was left clutching the barrel.

A half a breath's pause allowed both parties to realize their predicament. Two sets of eyes widened—for two very different reasons.

Then the thug unabashedly pulled the trigger, but a sudden explosion of machinegun fire obscured the sound of the shot.

* * *

Batgirl crouched on the window ledge, surveying the scene. Whatever she was expecting, the sight that met her eyes certainly wasn't it.

Someone must have set off the fire alarm, and the sprinklers had soaked everyone and everything in sight. In this indoor storm, Robin had managed to subdue most of Two-Face's goons, and apparently he had help from some of the museum guards, who were now locked in a shootout of sorts with Two-Face and his remaining thugs. The sight of some of those guards trussed up alongside the thugs made Batgirl wonder if there had been some kind of mutiny in the ranks, but that question—just like all the others, would have to wait, because just then Batgirl saw Robin, and gasped.

The Boy Wonder was currently attempting to wrestle an apparent guard-turned-thug for a pistol, quite out in the open and vulnerable to incoming bullet fire from all sides as Two-Face's goons tried to shoot Robin and the museum guards tried to shoot the thug.

Batgirl was all set to dive into the fray when a sudden burst of machinegun fire caught her attention. Two-Face had just left his defensive position, spraying the entire exhibit hall with bullets as he did so.

* * *

Robin wrenched the gun out of the thug's hand at the exact same moment that thug managed to pull the trigger. The sensation was not pleasant, but his glove—and hand—would survive the sudden heat hardly the worse for wear.

The shot went wild and the thug tumbled off to the side from the sudden shifting of the kickback from the gun. Robin also fell back, and these simultaneous actions left the two combatants momentarily prone and vulnerable.

The fact was accentuated when they both turned to see the source of the sudden machinegun fire. The guard barked a harsh laugh when he saw that Two-Face now stood—still covered by an exhibit case, with the barrel of his machinegun pointed straight at the Boy Wonder's head.

Robin did have time to think about it. He caught sight of Dent's face, which seemed to smile and sneer in the same bitter breath, and reacted instantly. He threw the pistol with all his might as he would a birdarang straight at the villain's hands, hoping to knock the gun aside, while at the same time diving madly out of the way.

Both the pistol and his body flew at the exact same moment, and the barking of machinegun fire managed to drown out the clanking sound of metal striking metal. It couldn't quite overpower the sound of Two-Face's hideous laugher, however. Nor the sound of Batgirl's sudden shout:

"ROBIN!"

* * *

_Azarath… Metrion… Xin_—GASP!"

Raven's meditation was suddenly jolted, her chanting words suddenly grinding to a stop. Her eyes flew opened, strobing the color of molten pewter before she wrenched them shut again.

The borrowed shroud of safe determination that enveloped her soul self suddenly pulsed, and a searing psychic heat lanced through her manifestation in the astral plane.

The power of that determination increased tenfold, but not under its own power. A sudden surge of emotion rose up like a tidal wave and flooded the hardened serenity she had enclosed herself within.

Raven came crashing out of meditation and landed hard on her knees with a soft splash, her amethyst eyes opening wide.

The real world suddenly assaulted her, both sight and sound snapping harshly into place. Raven inhaled a breath in a sharp hiss as the sensations all vied to register with her brain.

Unfortunately they had stiff competition from her soul self, which was still mostly in control, and still firmly encased in Robin's now-turbulent emotions.

* * *

Barbara Gordon's heart leapt into her throat and her shout of warning and denial came out as more of a high-pitched screech. She dove into the exhibit hall, throwing her own batarang to try and knock the gun from Two-Face's hands before he had the chance to pull the trigger.

Events unfolded in slow motion.

Batgirl screamed.

Two-Face pulled the trigger.

Robin dove and Batgirl dove, tossing both gun and batarang at the villain's hands.

The pistol impacted the machine gun and ricocheted up into the air.

Two-Face reflexively let go of the machinegun and the batarang impacted it, sending it flying.

Robin came out of his dive unscathed, and looked up in unveiled surprise over towards the window, where he saw Batgirl completing the somersault she—like him—used to cushion her descent into the exhibit hall.

And time resumed.

Batgirl sprang to a standing position, eyes reflexively darting to Robin to ensure that he wasn't harmed.

Their eyes locked, and so many emotions were conveyed in that moment that neither could discern a single thing.

The spell was broken when Robin jerked his head back around to Two-Face, and his breath caught when he saw that the villain had somehow gained control of the pistol. Robin saw how Two-Face held the gun in an outstretched hand, and half a breath later he realized that the villain was no longer aiming at _him_.

Robin's strangled gasp escaped without his consent, and his hand had only just grasped a birdarang when Two-Face pulled the trigger.

Batgirl noticed the gun pointed straight at her heart only moments too late, and the only reaction she was afforded was a slight hitch of her breath before—

**BLAM!**

* * *

"NOOOOO!"

It was Robin's voice that screamed, but Raven found her own mouth forming the word as she gazed half-seeing, half-sensing across the impossible breadth of the exhibit hall.

The birdarang flew from Robin's hand in the futile half-second after Two-Face pulled the trigger and Raven felt his emotions rise in crescendo in time with the action. She felt everything from him—the determination now diluted by such things as shock, anger, disbelief, and fear.

Fear.

The last thing one would expect to the Boy Wonder to feel—indeed, the one thing it was rumored super heroes to be incapable of feeling. Robin's painful cry of denial was born of fear, and in the echoing eternity that followed as the sound ripped through the astral plane Raven's third eye was bombarded by a sea of images, too quick and too jumbled for her to process. The one prevailing sight however…

Was red.

**FLASH!**

_A cascade of red hair._

**FLASH!**

_A red costume._

**FLASH!**

_Red blood._

**FLASH!**

The red-tinted ripples of an echoing scream. The exact same scream, screamed now again for both the same and different reasons.

Raven gasped, seeing red.

_Fearing_ red.

Red stains and—

**FLASH!**

—_red slanted eyes._

**FLASH!**

_NOOOOO!_

The scream tore through the suddenly red-hued astral plane, echoing loudly in the exhibit hall, beneath the Big Top, off the hallowed cliffs of Azarath, inside her head.

Inside her soul.

Raven's wide eyes flashed to gray again as she saw her hand fly up of its own accord at the same instant that Robin threw the birdarang.

The birdarang flew into the gun, knocking it away, leaving Robin frozen in pose with fingertips outstretched in desperation.

Just as Raven found herself, at the exact opposite end of the exhibit hall, standing erect on her knees and mirroring Robin perfectly in the driving artificial rain, as Two-Face and Batgirl stood between them.

* * *

Two-Face stood staring, completely oblivious to the fact that his pistol was just bataranged out of his hands. His eyes were fixed on Batgirl's chest, and he had a quasi-comical expression on his face.

Robin's face was frozen in a mask of disbelief; and every other conscious face in the exhibit hall—for everyone had stopped to stare at Batgirl's entry and the resulting actions—appeared mostly confused.

Batgirl stood stock still, water running down her bangs and over her cowl into eyes. Already soaked but oblivious to that fact, Batgirl's eyes drifted down, slightly cross-eyed, to the black-on-yellow Bat-logo on the front of her costume, and ironically enough, her expression rather mimicked Two-Face's.

The bullet had impacted a hovering shield of obsidian that had somehow materialized out of thin air a few scarce inches away from her torso in an oval shape about the size of her Bat-logo. All eyes were fixed on that shield as it quivered slightly in place before dissolving into nothingness. The bullet—still spinning as it had tried to penetrate the shield, lost most of its kinetic energy in the attempt. With its progress no longer hindered it tumbled awkwardly forward and bounded off center of the black bat on Batgirl's chest. It hit the marble floor with a hollow TINK and bounced slightly, rolling harmlessly aside.

For many aching seconds, time stood still as both heroes and villains stood frozen, beaten into submission, it seemed, by what many silent tongues confessed a miracle.

Then all action resumed at once.

Bullets started flying as both guards and goons alike decided in the exact same instant to resume their shootout.

Batgirl and Two-Face dove in separate direction to avoid the shots.

The forgotten thug dove forward to tackle Robin, and their struggle began anew.

In the chaos that resumed so abruptly, Two-Face rolled out of the way of the incoming fire and came to standing, conveniently, at the door to the emergency exit. He pushed it opened and slipped through, trying to put as much distance between himself and the heroes behind him as possible.

* * *

"Gar, look!"

"Dude, he's making a run for it!"

Victor's human eye widened. "No way! The NYPD's got this place surrounded—the feds too!"

Gar fumed, turning an amusing shade of purplish green in his anger. "They'll never catch him! He's _Two-Face!_" The petit changeling balled his hands into fists, practically shaking with rage. "No _way _he gets off that easy. _No way!_"

Too late Victor realized what his friend was up to.

"Gar, WAIT!"

But Garfield had already morphed into a peregrine falcon, and with a piercing shriek, took off with the intents of pursuing the fleeing villain.

* * *

Raven shed the last vestiges of meditation and saw the world through human eyes again. As though ascending out of the ocean, Raven felt the last waves of Robin's emotions lick at her feet until finally falling short of reach.

She shuddered, violently, as the last of the sensations drained away and her soul self adjusted itself to solitary existence again.

"Nnnnggh," Raven winced, squinting her eyes shut as she pressed a hand into her temple as though the psychic exercise had given her some sort of tension headache.

Really though, it was the images that slammed into her third eye.

Images she gleaned from Robin's mind.

A few deep, shuddering breaths later and Raven felt more like herself again.

"Wh-what…?"

But no, she knew what had happened.

Raven shook her head, quickly, jerkily, as she tried to process exactly what it _meant_.

Then suddenly her pained and confused expression melted into stoicism. Regardless of what just happened, she _still_ needed to find Garfield and Victor. Everything else could wait until after her friends are safe.

Raven finally stood, still hidden behind the exhibit case. Her soul self stretched, strangely invigorated by the whole ordeal, as though she has achieved some sort of psychic jogger's high. Her eyes slid closed as she sent out probing tendrils, seeking out the psychic signatures of Garfield Logan and Victor Stone, who were somewhere very, very close.

One final unrelated thought crossed her mind, and Raven couldn't help the half-smirk that graced her lips even as she eased deeper into silent meditative concentration.

_I guess he really **does**__ have a girlfriend in Gotham…_

* * *

Victor took off after his friend but not even his cybernetic legs could keep up with the green peregrine falcon that streaked its way into the exhibit hall. He reached the exhibit hall just in time to see the falcon transform mid-flight into a green gorilla that roared and smashed its way through the emergency door, only to turn back into a falcon to continue the pursuit.

Victor knew better than to try for his own mad dash through the bullets to follow his friend. Instead he would have to rely on other methods of finding Garfield, like the tracer the changeling is carrying in his pocket…

* * *

The guard-turned-thug that tackled Robin tried to pin him to the floor, wrestling style.

Robin rocked back onto his shoulders and kicked the thug off.

The thug flipped over and swiveled to a crouch and wasted no time in pouncing again.

Robin had no choice but to watch Two-Face make his escape over the thug's massive shoulders as they continued their struggle for dominance.

Then the mad chaos of the fight in the exhibit hall was harshly interrupted yet again, this time by the piercing shriek of a green peregrine falcon that streaked its way to the exit door only to crash through it in the form of a green gorilla, and then transform back again and fly swiftly away.

Robin knew that it was Garfield Logan, but whatever part of Dick Grayson that might have been concerned over the rash decision of his friend was still privately reeling from the shock of what happened—_almost_ happened—to Barbara. The only reaction he could muster was a slightly appreciative grunt as he turned back towards the incredibly startled thug and punched him in the jaw, probably harder than necessary. The thug crashed back to the floor into the welcomed embrace of unconsciousness, totally unaware of what had hit him.

Robin made short work of binding the thug's hands with his bootlaces. Then he paused to take stock of the fight.

* * *

When Batgirl dove to the side to escape the sudden resurgence of gunfire, she wound up accidentally dodging right towards one of Two-Face's goons. She came out of her protective roll to once again find herself staring down the barrel of a gun.

The goon, however, seemed just as surprised as she was to have a sudden intruder in his cover space.

Batgirl's eyes hardened. "Not this time," she swore to herself in low tones as she reached out and grabbed the goon's wrist. She shoved it upwards over her head and his shot went wild.

The goon gasped in the split second before Batgirl swung her other fist into his right eye, sending him tumbling backwards into oblivion, transferring the gun into her waiting hand as he fell.

Batgirl removed the clip and tossed the gun aside, but her search for something to bind the goon's hands with was cut short by the sudden cry of a falcon.

Batgirl's head snapped up in time to see a green blur streak past her and smash its way in gorilla form out the emergency door.

"Logan…" she mused to herself, awed.

Then she realized that the teenaged metahuman must have gone after Two-Face, for the villain was nowhere in sight.

* * *

Raven's eyes snapped opened.

"Gar!" she exclaimed breathlessly as his psychic signature danced across her field of psychic vision with all the subtlety of a… gorilla.

"Wonders never cease…" she deadpanned, even as she closed herself off mentally from his mind. She sensed that Garfield was pursuing Two-Face, and from his volatile emotions she easily guessed why. His emotions were plain as day, and more than sufficient cause for worry.

Raven, of course, does not _do_ worry. She merely withdrew from his psychic aura and the broadcasts of emotion that surrounded it. She could help him easily enough without empathy.

Raven stood stoically as she collapsed in on her soul self and opened a black iris in the floor beneath her feet. Victor Stone was safe—she would have sensed it from Garfield if it were otherwise. It was Gar who needed her, and so it was to Gar she traveled via the astral plane, easily following his psychic signature as he chased down his inner demons in the form of a Two-Faced monster.

As she ported out of the exhibit hall, Raven was completely unaware of a set of ice blue eyes that regarded her with a sense of awe and gratitude through a pair of Starlite lenses.

* * *

Only one of Two-Face's thugs remained—and he knew it. His buddies were unconscious, weird meta-type shit popped up to save the bat-bitch, and his boss had abandoned them only to be chased by a (_teleporting?_) green gorilla. Now, finding himself all alone and in the presence of two of Gotham's vigilantes (and God only knows _what_ else), the thug knew when to throw in the towel.

"I give!" he called out, throwing his gun out of reach and reaching his knees, hands clasped neatly behind his back. The unscathed museum guards rushed his position, guns all pointed at his heart. Robin and Batgirl stood from their respective fights and glanced in each other's directions across the wide expanse of the exhibit hall.

Batgirl looked happily relieved, but Robin's face was hard as stone.

"Deal with it!" he ordered, his voice like jagged ice.

Before Batgirl had the chance to fully process what just happened, the emergency door was already violently swung opened. It slammed into the wall and hung suspended there for a moment before detaching itself from one of its hinges, teetered off balance for a few moments more, and finally gave up completely to crash down to the floor with a deafening CLANG. Batgirl, the guards, and the goon winced at the ricocheting noise.

In the silence that followed, no one bothered to question where the Boy Wonder had gone.

"Does anybody have cuffs?" Batgirl asked the guards, shattering the uneasy silence with her best Bat-voice.

"Y-Yeah…" One guard offered dazedly. He tossed a pair of handcuffs her way, and Batgirl caught them midair. She then proceeded to handcuff the goon behind his back.

"Watch him!" she ordered. "And get the police in here!"

With that, she took off after Robin.


	15. Deus ex machina

**The Stairwell**

Two-Face cornered hard, grabbing the slippery railing with one hand and using centripetal force to swing himself quickly over the landing and down to the next flight of stairs. Speed was key because it was a fairly safe bet that at least one if not both of the Bat-brats would be close behind him.

The plan had been perfect. It had taken months of careful planning from a cozy padded cell in Arkham Asylum, but it had been perfect. His grand entrance into the museum would attract the necessary attention, and while the police and the feds were busy duking it out over who had jurisdiction his hired guards would shamelessly call 911 from a cell phone. The emergency dispatcher would patch them in to whoever was pretending to be in charge out there, and the guards would claim that they had managed to waylay the villains inside the museum and—'thank God someone had listened to the FBI tip-off and decided to hire reinforcements for the evening'—because they were mounting a brave effort to keep the despicable thieves from reaching the exhibit hall while their compatriots hastened to load the priceless artifacts onto a box truck and shuttle them safely away from the museum. The guards' credentials would flawlessly pass inspection, of course, along with the 'armed, plain-clothed security personnel' hired to 'guard the truck' in the event that the villains broke through the line and made a grab for it. A delicious irony would have been if a few uniforms were persuaded to help them load the truck, which would have been checked, double-checked, and eventually cleared to transport the artifacts to the safety of a 'secure location,' under a 'highly welcomed' police escort.

Of course, the guards he bought would have ensured that the efforts met with no such resistance inside the museum, and the police would smile and wave as the priceless Egyptian treasures were hauled away by the thieves. The 'secure location' was going to be the parking lot of the Millennium Hotel ten blocks away—whose night watchmen had been paid off—where the artifacts would be transferred into the trunks of ordinary rental cars and the odd minivan so that they could be surreptitiously driven to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, which had been the pre-arranged backup display location in the event that something happened at the museum in New York before the transfer date to the Smithsonian in Washington. It would have been easy to convince the police escort to leave the artifacts in the hands of those trusted by the museum—and ergo by the Egyptian government, but any cops feeling more noble than lazy could easily take a bullet to the head and be stuffed into the trunk of their patrol car.

Out from under police scrutiny, the cars and vans would be emptied yet again and the artifacts transferred into a fleet of SUVs that were already waiting in the garage. The cars and vans would remain behind and the box truck would have been left parked in front of the hotel's delivery entrance. The SUVs would then leave quietly would make their way off of Manhattan Island hopefully without anyone being the wiser. When they finally arrived at Two-Face's hideout outside of Gotham the SUVs would be returned to the airport rental agency.

Even if Two-Face didn't escape the museum, the artifacts would be waiting for him after his next breakout.

But Two-Face never intended to be caught.

Of course, he also didn't intend for the Bat-brats to show up here—this wasn't Gotham they were way out of their territory, and nor did he intend to run into the scrawny animorph who was currently bounding down the stairs after him as a green gazelle.

"His daddy ain't gonna like this," the despot muttered emotionlessly as he reached into his pocket and removed an electronic device. His fingers danced across the small keypad and then, at the precise moment, his thumb depressed an ominous red button.

* * *

**Outside the museum**

Special Agent Hernandez replaced his cell phone in his pocket with a resigned sigh. The anonymous tip about the truck had been completely accurate, and four of the apprehended criminals were being carted away in the back of the police van that was now showing taillights as it drove away from the museum. The other two were still being treated, one for burns and the other for… whatever the heck some vigilante did to his knee. Unless Robin's talents include disguising his voice in particularly effeminate ways, Hernandez would place money that it was Batgirl.

For some reason that made him feel slightly better; at least two people down here appeared to know the score, which was a lot more than he could claim for Booker and his pathetic excuse for an anti-terrorist force. Cynically he guessed that a certifiable lunatic only warranted the NYPD's complete federal cooperation if they had a bomb strapped to their chest and were shouting obscenities in Arabic.

Hernandez shoved those thoughts aside as he glanced back over to the museum. The police line was too far away to hear anything with parabolic microphones, and even then the masonry of the museum made distinguishing sounds infuriatingly difficult. The only sound everyone was sure of was the staccato bursts of gunfire that started some time ago and didn't appear to be stopping. However, being so close to the building now, Hernandez had been able to occasionally hear the barking of machinegun fire coming from somewhere inside the museum.

"Damn kids." The agent shook his head, half in exasperation and half in resigned confusion. Even though Robin didn't look as small as in the tabloids, Hernandez would have staked a guess that the boy—yes, _boy_,was about the same age as his oldest son. He wondered what type of father allows his children to run around in traffic light-patterned costumes and dodge the bullets of homicidal maniacs. But then again, look at who Robin's father _is_…

"Gordon should have arrested him for child endangerment," Hernandez muttered, still shaking his head as a police cruiser left the scene, undoubtedly transporting the injured criminals to a hospital for further treatment.

In the silence that followed Hernandez realized that he was the only one standing by the loading dock, as the uniforms he had dragged with him to investigate the truck had either departed with the arrested criminals or returned to the line for further orders. Then for some unknown reason he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Suddenly the agent realized what had suddenly become disconcerting: the silence. The drone of gunfire had finally stopped. Hernandez turned back around and spotted an open SWAT van with men inside huddled around a parabolic microphone. He had just started walking in that direction when suddenly a loud yet muffled sound rumbled all around him.

If he had been paying attention, Hernandez would have heard the sound grow into a deafening roar only to be drowned out by louder, more frantic sounds.

However, Special Agent Hernandez wasn't paying any attention to noise. He was too busy watching in horror as the SWAT van shot sky-high. It had been parked above a manhole cover, which had been blown off from the force of a high-powered explosion in the sewers below. The manhole cover—and the SWAT van, were lofted into the air and pitched aside like matchbox toys as a towering jet of flame shot out from the sewers.

Similar pillars of orange flame had erupted all along the block, knocking aside whatever had been unfortunate enough to be close by. Policemen were on the ground, writhing in agony. Some were rolling to put out the flames that had consumed their bodies.

It was a difficult sight to watch and Hernandez faltered, turning hesitantly back towards the eerily silent museum. He knew instantly that Two-Face had set off the explosions, and that now the police line had been broken.

* * *

**The stairwell**

Garfield watched with a gazelle's eyes as Two-Face reached the bottom floor and ran through the fire door. He was on the final landing, gearing ready to leap after the villain and transform into something heavy to tackle him with when suddenly he saw what Two-Face had pulled from his pocket. The gazelle gasped and turned into a panther—needing speed—and jumped quickly towards the closing door just as the villain pressed the button.

Instantly the entire bottom flight of stairs erupted in a fiery explosion, along with the base of every other stairwell in the museum. Two-Face had rigged them all to blow to cover his escape.

The panther felt his green hairs begin to singe, and Garfield scrunched his eyes shut and curled into a ball, transforming into a cockroach in the process as his body sailed into the flames.

* * *

Robin was halfway down the staircase when the explosion shook its frame. Quickly he dove into a corner wrapped his cape protectively about him. The initial fireball threatened to climb the height of stairwell, but the driving water prevented that from happening. The flames barely made it to Robin's landing, and the smoldering carcass of metal below him managed to escape with only blast damage, for the sprinklers had made everything too wet to catch on fire.

When Robin regained his feet he saw that Two-Face's explosion had effectively sealed off the ground floor's entrance to the stairwell. The Boy Wonder spat a Romani curse as took a running leap off the landing. He sailed forward down the stairs and into the second floor hallway, tucked into a roll to avoid injury, and then shot to his feet when he came out of it. Then he took off at a run towards the nearest window.

* * *

Batgirl had only managed to reach the first landing before the explosion shook the staircase. She was thrown back into the wall and barely managed to remain on her feet. When she recovered her balance she ran to the railing and peered down to survey the damage.

What she saw in the unsettled dust and cinder that was quickly turning to wet and sooty slime on every exposed surface was Robin's unaided flight down the stairs and through the second floor entrance. Batgirl grit her teeth and sprinted down after him.

* * *

**Another stairwell **

Victor's transmitter worked perfectly despite the random fluctuations he was picking up. Future analysis would reveal those blips to occur every time Gar shape-shifts, but right now the whys didn't matter. Right now all that mattered was keeping up with the erratic flight of his little green friend.

Victor had run back down the hallway towards the access stairwell. He kept track of Gar's movements and his cybernetics-enhanced legs enabled him to keep up fairly easily. He matched what turned out to be a green gazelle almost stride for stride as he ran down his own set of stairs.

Of course, having matched Gar's movements so perfectly, he was also standing on the bottommost landing when the walls exploded around him. Victor barely had time to contemplate how on earth they had missed the rigged explosives the first time they had taken this staircase when the supports gave way beneath him and sent his flesh and titanium body plummeting into the basement.

* * *

**The first floor**

The hummer was sitting exactly where he'd left it.

Two-Face ran through the lobby, hastily scurrying over and around the rubble that littered his path. Here sat the perfect getaway vehicle. With the cops in disarray thanks to his little surprise, it should be an easy task to break through their lines and make a break for it. The hummer was powerful enough and armored enough to at least give them a run for their money.

And what luck! It started right up!

Two-Face slammed on the brakes and shoved the hummer into reverse. The tires screeched as he stomped down on the gas. They spun in place for half a second before the hummer lurched backward. It roared in reverse back through the hole it had made in the front entryway of the museum and began a careening descent down the front stairs towards the scattered and chaotic remnants of the police line.

* * *

Still in cockroach form, Garfield crawled out from the pile of rubble he had found himself beneath when the explosion had run its course.

"Nnnnng," he winced, transforming back into human and rubbing his aching head. He was covered in char from the explosion, which was swiftly becoming streaked by water from the sprinklers and giving his green complexion a grayish, slimy hue.

Garfield was dirty, but for the most part unharmed.

"Whoa… Not cool, dude," he chastised with half-hearted venom as he surveyed the damage. There would be no getting back through that doorway to the stairwell. Gar might have been young, but he was far from stupid. He knew that Two-Face had rigged the blast to prevent anyone from following after him.

"But he didn't count on me," Gar professed as he shoved himself to standing. He was a little unsteady but soon discovered his balance. Then with a final headshake to clear what was left of the fog, Gar transformed into a cheetah and bounded after Two-Face.

* * *

**The second floor**

Robin really had no way of knowing where Two-Face ran to after setting off the explosion in the stairwell, but after looking out the window he had a fairly good idea.

The towering jets of flames were still burning strong, some higher than others. The NYPD looked to be in a sea of panic as their line had broken. Robin gasped and ran to a window on another wall.

The sight was the same, and Robin swore again. Apparently Two-Face had rigged an explosion in the sewers surrounding the museum, resulting in the seeming anarchy below. From this distance Robin couldn't get a feel for the extent of the casualties, but one thing was clear: the line had broken. Two-Face could easily punch through and make his escape.

Robin shoved away from the window and took off at a run back down the corridor and into another room. He ran over to the window—a window directly above the front entrance. He shoved it opened just in time to see Two-Face's humvee barrel down the entryway in reverse.

Robin aimed his grappling launch and fired out the window in the same instant that Two-Face slammed his way through the haphazard wall of overturned police cruisers and broke free of the encircling blockade.

* * *

Batgirl caught a glimpse of Robin's cape as he ran by. She ran to follow him, and had just barely entered the room in time to see the Boy Wonder swing out on a jump line.

"Robin! Wait!" she called out, running to the window, but if he heard her call he chose to ignore it.

Batgirl reached the window and leaned out in time to see Robin falling.

No, not falling. _Flying!_

Robin had aimed true and his grappling launch had imbedded itself in the hummer's grill plate. Robin had then been violently wrenched through the open the window, somehow maintaining his hold on the grappling launch.

Batgirl watched, fearful and awed, as Robin sailed through the air, covering distance at the same speed, and for a moment she was convinced that the Bird had really learned to fly. Then her heart leapt as she noticed how swiftly he was plummeting towards the ground, even as his grappling launch was reeling him in closer to the escaping hummer, which was now rocketing in reverse towards the park.

Batgirl watched, helpless, as the hummer suddenly jammed its brakes and executed a perfect 180 degree turn miraculously without flipping over. This ripped the grappling launch out of Robin's hands and allowed the teenaged vigilante barely a second to brace himself for the inevitable. In that second, Robin grabbed his cape and hastily wrapped it about his upper body. Then he landed hard on his shoulders and rag dolled across the pavement, the cape thankfully protecting his exposed flesh from the friction of his tumble.

Batgirl's heart started beating again at the same moment her jaw dropped, because Robin came out of that kamikaze roll by shooting back onto his feet. The surrounding policeman watched, slack-jawed, as Robin ran a few paces forward and tipped a police motorcycle upright. The Boy Wonder keyed the ignition and slammed the bike into gear as he wrenched it around to face the park. The teenaged vigilante continued his desperate pursuit of the villain, both tires and officers screeching in protest.

* * *

**The basement**

Victor's titanium outfitting had probably saved his life. He had landed in the middle of the pile of rubble that had been the base of the staircase, and any ordinary human probably would have been crushed to death—which was why he (perhaps foolishly) held rather optimistic thoughts that Garfield had survived in the other stairwell.

Why fear the worst when you can hope for the best?

And, why accept defeat when there's still strength to be found in your metal body?

Victor spent a quiet moment to surge his power cells. As soon as his titanium circuitry began to glow a fierce blue he kicked his limbs out in all directions, sending the ensnaring debris flying.

"RRAUGHH!"

He tumbled down and out of the makeshift trap and found himself sprawled out on the floor, breathing the free air again.

He was so distracted that he failed to notice how every last scrap of clothing had been blasted from his person. "Well, alright!"

Victor's momentary victory was cropped short when he checked for Garfield's status. There were a few tense moments when the small flashing light remained stationary, showing that while the transmitter hadn't been destroyed, Gar was no longer moving. Victor had just barely begun to register the implications of this development when the blip flickered momentarily and then started moving again, quickly. Victor grinned wide, more than happy to forget his worry.

Reassured, Victor then took stock of his own situation. He noticed with chagrin that going back the way he came was next to impossible. The only way to go was forward, through the door into the control room. Victor practically ripped the door off its hinges as he ran through it, because he just _knew _that there had to be another way out of that room.

Victor found his optimism rewarded once again. Across the length of the room there was another door, which led to a long, sparsely lit corridor. Victor's optical enhancements made no trouble of the poor visibility, and he raced ahead without difficulty.

The corridor ended at another door. Victor stopped short and for a moment just stared incredulously at the offending obstacle as though his irritated stare was all it would take to defeat it.

A half-second later and the cyborg came to his senses. He yanked the door back with superhuman strength, practically ripping it off its hinges—and ripping it out of its reinforced lock. Victor didn't notice or care, however. The blinking light showed that Gar had just left the museum. Victor needed to catch up to his friend, and quickly, so he bounded up the stairs that the opened door revealed—barely taking the time to marvel at how this set had miraculously escaped destruction before he found himself standing in the middle of the loading dock.

* * *

**Outside the museum**

Hernandez was once again screaming into his cell phone. This time he was trying to get as many emergency crews to the museum as possible while at the same time, trying to coordinate with whatever officers weren't injured to step in as backup because as is, the police line wouldn't be stop an angry toddler from breaking through and fleeing to safety.

Another moment found his prediction to be correct, and the supposed backup painfully too late.

Two-Face's hummer barreled down the front entryway of the museum in reverse. Officers screamed and dove out of the way, some of them even managing to draw their guns in futile attempts to shoot either the tires or the driver.

The ugly vehicle that was really more tank than SUV crashed through a weak point in the line, sending officers scrambling and overturned police cruisers spinning away from the force of impact. The armored rear end of the hummer made short work of any obstacles, though a few of the more astute officers tried to pile into the few upright cruisers and give chase, but even they took a fairly lengthy pause before coming to their senses and taking action.

Not a single cruiser's ignition had turned over when suddenly an oddly shaped projectile soared through the air after the hummer and imbedded itself into the front grill plate. As Two-Face continued his unhindered escape Hernandez had to blink in surprise, certain he was seeing things.

That projectile was attached to a cable, and that cable was attached to Robin.

A moment later and the logic computed. _Robin was attached to the speeding hummer! _

Hernandez was forced to simply watch, stricken to silence, cell phone still pressed up against his ear, as the hummer executed a chassis-rocking 180 degree turn and sped off forwards into the park. His jaw gaped in surprise as he watched the Boy Wonder sail through the air, covering lots of ground as Two-Face pulled him along but at the same time drawing nearer and nearer to the ground. The agent nearly had a heart attack when the line was yanked from Robin's hands and the teenaged vigilante went careening across the pavement, but before he had the chance to do so he saw Robin shoot to his feet again, only to commandeer a police motorcycle and go speeding off after the villain, the first of the good guys to offer pursuit.

"Uh… Ah, sorry, dispatch. Uh, we're still going to need to ambulances…" he stammered into his phone as soon as the hollow sounds by his ear registered as a rather irate police dispatcher who didn't take kindly to being ignored. A few un-pleasantries later and Hernandez hung up from dispatch and switched his call waiting over to his superior, whom he had kept on hold.

The agent was about to speak when suddenly a green cheetah came bounding down the stairs, darting over and around officers and police debris, and took off towards the park after Two-Face and Robin.

Hernandez was denied the time to contemplate the oddity, however. An odd sound made him turn around to see that Batgirl had just landed on the pavement beside the museum wall, apparently having jumped and used a decel cable to slow her descent. Hernandez's rather shell-shocked mind registered the fact that he was right about the female vigilante's presence at about the same time he saw her run past the startled and gawking officers and abscond with yet _another _police motorcycle. She sped off after the green cheetah.

"Your tax dollars at work…" Hernandez absently mused into his cell phone.

_What the hell are you babbling about? Agent?_

But Hernandez was ignoring his superior, again. What he could only describe as an animatronics prop from _Terminator_ had just jumped out of the loading dock and streaked past him and the poor police force at superhuman speed, following Batgirl on the motorcycle.

"You don't want to know, sir," Hernandez replied. "Trust me."

* * *

**Above the park**

Batman was flying the batplane towards the museum. Operating in stealth mode he had managed to avoid detection by whomever and whatever was watching the airspace tonight over Manhattan. His aircraft registered simply as a slightly darker shade of the night sky, and might have even obscured a star or two if one could see them from the ground with all the lights of the city.

Batman knew that there were no certainties in this equation save of course for the fact that Two-Face had indeed attempted a heist tonight and had capped it off with the detonation of several high-powered explosives in the sewers surrounding the museum, which he learned of en route by jacking into the police frequencies. Batman had no idea what he would find when he arrived, and that fact only served to fuel his foul mood. All ironies aside, for all his seemingly unorthodox methods the Batman was not used to flying blind.

Robin and Batgirl may or may not have been at the museum tonight, which means that they may or may not have tried to engage Two-Face. Neither of them were answering his hails, which meant that they either they were either unable to respond, or were (as was most likely with Robin) flat-out ignoring him, and the Batman hates being kept in the dark, especially when it concerns his subordinates.

It all added up to the fact that Batman had no idea what to expect when he arrived, and a lack of certainty often gives rise to anxiety, an emotion usually kept in check by the presence of fact. His mind kept tormenting him with flashes of Batgirl's bloodied costume, shipped to him discreetly as though it were nothing more than a catalogue order. Batman of course knew who had sent the package—and why, but heat of his anger at the situation kept being stolen away by his memories of a young man, bleeding all over himself in a back alley in Gotham, the direct result of the arrogance that comes with certainty.

The Dark Knight's troubled musings were hastily interrupted as he entered the airspace above Central Park. Right below him a beat-up hummer was tearing across the lawn heading away from the museum.

Batman once again saw red, but for entirely different reasons.

* * *

**Central Park**

Two-Face managed to get the hummer to hold a steady speed of sixty miles per hour as he careened over gentle hills and sloping embankments, swerving to dodge large benches and the odd statue. The villain spared a hasty glance into his rear-view mirror and gasped at what he saw.

"Damn freak doesn't know when to quit!" the villain groused, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't seeing things. When he redirected his attention forward he shoved his foot down harder on the gas pedal, trying to widen the gap between his humvee and the green cheetah giving chase.

Then suddenly the vehicle lurched violently to the left and Two-Face had to struggle to maintain control. He was rapidly losing speed and the loud rattling sound off to his left indicated that he had somehow blown out a tire.

"Just what I don't frickin need!"

Two-Face downshifted and fought to regain control of his hummer. The green cheetah was getting awfully large in the rear view mirror and the villain lamented that somehow in the process of escaping he had dropped the gun. He was attempting to formulate a new plan when suddenly the hummer lurched again, this time to the other side.

The hummer lurched and rocked, and Two-Face yanked the wheel and fought mightily for control. He swerved violently and slammed on the breaks. The hummer skid on the grass and started to turn, angling itself awkwardly in response to Two-Face's desperate attempts to control it. He was just beginning to understand that something had taken out _another_ tire when his front wheels finally moved into an angle that the forward motion of the hummer couldn't reconcile. The vehicle flipped on its side and rolled over onto its roof. It skid some more on the dew-wet grass until it slid down a small hill. When it hit the bottom at an unnatural angle the vehicle flipped again, landing on its other side. Here it stayed; rims and exposed, tires still spinning, and the engine still humming.

* * *

Gar watched through feline eyes as a dark shadow suddenly appeared on the horizon, just ahead of Two-Face's hummer. The villain didn't seem to notice until a pinprick of light flashed along the shadow's edge and then suddenly the left rear tire blew out. Gar's cat-eyes widened as he ducked and rolled as an armadillo to avoid the flying strips of rubber.

Gar came out of the roll just as the right rear tire blew apart. This time he didn't have to duck, and he changed back into human form as he watched the humvee catapult out of control and flip over.

"Dude…"

Gar stood staring as there appeared to be no movement from inside the hummer. Was Two-Face injured then, or worse? Gar didn't know what to make of it—or of the sudden surge of emotions those thoughts produced. Right now he had a crisis of conscience as he tried to decide what to do.

What he should have done was redirect his attention the shadow that caused this.

Suddenly that shadow belched forth another shadow, and realization dawned. The first shadow was the Batplane, which was hovering now above the lawn. Gar knew this because the second shadow was revealed to be the Batman himself, who dropped down out of the sky and landed on the up-facing fender of Two-Face's hummer.

Garfield's eyes widened in awe before he could stop them as he saw the Batman land: legs bent slightly at the knees and cape splashing down like viscous liquid around him before he straightened and stood tall. Even though he'd spent much of his life in Gotham, Gar had never seen the Batman up close before. He was tall, dark, and just as menacing as all the stories made him out to be. The cape hung from his shoulders like an unnatural shroud and the spikes on his gauntlets were the stuff of nightmares.

Gar stood enraptured, torn between wanting to stay and watch and run far away and hide, as the cold white of the Starlite lenses that hid the Batman's eyes narrowed threateningly in his direction. Gar swallowed thickly but couldn't bring himself to move.

The petit green metahuman held Batman's interest for a grand total of three seconds. Then the Dark Knight returned his attention to the despot in the overturned vehicle. Batman dropped into a crouch and landed a punch on the window, shattering the glass. Then he reached inside and hoisted Two-Face through the now glassless window by the lapels.

Two-Face was bleeding from a gash in the scar tissue on his forehead, but obviously the wound wasn't very serious because the villain came around rather quickly. He blinked several times in rapid succession, trying to clear his vision.

When he succeeded he suddenly wished that he hadn't. The sight that greeted him was Batman's face barely a foot from his own and leveling a scowl that would have made the most hardened of criminals lose control of their bowels.

Harvey Dent merely winced in whiny dejection. "Why me…"

Batman's answer was a fierce uppercut that caught Two-Face under the chin. The impact sent the villain flying because in that instant Batman had also let go of Two-Face's jacket. Two-Face's body arced up into the air before it went crashing down to the grass below. The villain rolled once and then lay still.

* * *

As soon as Batman's attention shifted Garfield transformed. He turned into a hawk and flew swiftly into the branches of the nearest tree. From this vantage point—off to the left and nearly twenty feet away, he watched a profile view of Batman splaying Two-Face flat in one punch. Then he saw Batman stand up straight again and stare down at the unconscious villain in what could only have been described as contempt.

Then Garfield's attention was drawn to the ground right below his perch. A black iris suddenly opened up in the grass and an obsidian form emerged from the hole that shouldn't have been there. The form solidified and took shape, but nothing could have prepared him for what materialized right before his eyes.

_Raven!_

The hawk barely managed to vocalize a startled cry before a pale hand shot forth and clamped his beak shut.

"Be _silent!_" Raven hissed. The explosions and rapidly shifting emotions made tracking his animalistic thoughts that much more difficult through the astral plane, and she had arrived later than she'd planned after using up a lot more psychic energy than she'd wanted. On top of that that, the storm of emotion that was contained within the Batman's psychic signature was strong enough to give even the most powerful mystic pause.

"Wait," she then directed in a tone that left no room for arguments. She felt Victor approaching, and when he arrived she would port them all to safety and be done with the entire emotional mess.

* * *

Robin's bike came screeching to a stop the moment he saw the Batplane.

"No…"

He'd come so far—been so _close!_

"NO!" He screamed, gunning the engine and closing the gap that separated him from the now wildly swerving—now flipping humvee.

When Robin got close enough he saw that Garfield Logan had transformed back into a human. His friend didn't seem to hear the bike's approach however; obviously he was too focused on the scene before him, but who wouldn't be? The Batman sure knew how to make an entrance.

Robin scowled.

Suddenly Garfield turned into a hawk and flew over to a nearby tree, most likely to try and watch wile making Batman think that he had flown the coop. At any other moment Robin might have pitied his friend. The poor metahuman didn't realize that Batman would have expected such a move and even though his attention was directed back at the hummer, he never lost sight of the shape-shifting teenager.

Robin rolled the bike to a stop and cut the engine just shy of where Garfield had been standing. Two-Face's rag-dolling body rolled to a stop within arms reach of his front tire.

Robin sat on the bike seemingly impassive, his face set into a mask of unreadable stoicism as his eyes remained hidden behind the cold, passionless white of Starlite lenses. It was the first time that _Robin_ had seen _Batman_ since that dreadful autumn night, over a year ago. Ice blue eyes gazed out passed those lenses, past the prone body of the Gothamite villain, over to the wrecked hummer and up to the figure that was still standing on its fender. They watched as the Batman's gaze shifted almost imperceptibly, up from the body of the unconscious Two-Face, past the parked NYPD motorcycle, to the young man seated atop it.

Both knew though that it was not the first time Batman had seen Robin. The Bird had paid his mentor a visit once, at his suit in the Pennsylvania Hotel.

Starlite met Starlite as hidden blue met hidden blue, and each felt rather than saw the others' eyes lock with his own. For a moment that stretched out into eternity the former partners simply stared at each other, and both vigilantes would come to realize much later that in that moment they had learned what it was like to become a prisoner of the mask.

* * *

Raven suddenly released Gar's beak.

"Nnnngh," she winced, squinting her eyes shut and putting a hand to her temple.

Hawk-Gar fluttered off of his perch and transformed back into a human that stood close at Raven's side. Tentatively he reached a hand out and gently rested it on the goth girl's shoulder.

"…Raven?"

* * *

Batgirl hadn't been much behind Robin, but when she finally caught up to him she gasped and stopped her bike short. Robin still sat on his bike, maybe twenty feet ahead of her. He was having some sort of dispassionate staring contest with Batman, who stood on the fender of Two-Face's overturned hummer. The Batplane hovered above them and the villain was sprawled out unconscious on the grass.

Hesitantly Batgirl killed her bike's engine and slowly approached her teammates. Never before had she felt like such an unwelcome intruder as when she finally came to stand next to Robin, and neither vigilante acknowledged her presence.

* * *

Victor Stone had followed the flashing dot that was Garfield's signal. He knew he was also following Batgirl, Robin, and Two-Face—his enhanced vision enabling him to sometimes catch glimpses of them across the flatter stretches of park terrain.

What he didn't know, was when and how _Raven_ had arrived.

As if the site of Batman, Batgirl, and Robin all gathered around the unconscious Two-Face wasn't jarring enough, seeing Garfield suddenly put a hand on a stricken Raven's shoulder was. Victor skidded to a stop and then quickly altered course, headed for the tree.

"Dude!" Garfield greeted in cheerful surprise. He still had a hand supportively on Raven's shoulder as the sorceress winced, trembling slightly all over.

"Nnnngh," Raven groaned. Then suddenly she tensed and began to softly chant. "Azarath…"

"Hey man," Victor's expressed relief at Garfield's apparent good health was tainted by the intrusion of his sudden concern for Raven.

"Metrion…"

"What the—"

"XINTHOS!"

Raven's eyes flew open, strobing molten pewter. The cry of a bird resounded throughout the astral plane as an obsidian void in the shape of a Raven broke free into reality. It spread its giant wings and wrapped them around the stunned Victor Stone and prat-falling Garfield Logan. Another high-pitched cry and Raven folded her friends into her soul self. She slunk with them down through the black iris that opened up beneath their feet and disappeared.

* * *

Batman stood staring at Robin and then Batgirl from atop the humvee. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw a black void ripple beneath a nearby tree and the three metahuman teenagers that had been standing beneath it disappeared in a paranormal poof. Batman's eyes narrowed as he processed this information, but it was swiftly shoved to the back burner of his mind.

Batgirl and Robin were right in front of him.

Bruce Wayne's tired blue eyes blinked slowly from the hidden safety behind his cowl. The Batman's children were okay. Whatever had been raging within his soul these two long, lonely hours since his conversation with Commissioner Gordon sated itself on the site of those two tired and bruised—but relatively unharmed _children_. He wouldn't have to find a way to break the news to James… or to Alfred.

For the most fleeting of moments, nothing else mattered.

Then reality set back in.

Batman's eyes narrowed again, the only indication that his thought pattern changed. Robin was still disobeying orders, and his actions had placed a largely untrained (despite highly gifted) Batgirl in the line of fire. The first transgression was merely unacceptable. The second—

"Report."

The Batman's voice was low and dangerous. It cut through the silence like a vengeful dagger and suddenly the air felt a lot colder than it had a moment ago.

Batgirl opened her mouth to respond, but she knew that the question wasn't directed at her. She might as well have been invisible, for all she mattered in that moment. Without turning her head she shifted her gaze from Batman to Robin, waiting for his answer.

Robin still sat on his pilfered bike, the engine still idling. His ice blue eyes were frozen in their stare. Cold. Hard. Unblinking.

_Report._

The word cracked like a whip across the space between them and Robin embraced the chill in the air. His cape blew slightly in the seemingly unnatural breeze, and ever so slowly, his eyes narrowed in his mask. Did Batman truly expect him to answer, months after he freed Robin from burden of following orders? Did Bruce truly expect him to show respect, months after he so casually cast Dick aside only to quietly replace him?

Robin blinked, once, but the Batman couldn't see it. Then he revved the motorcycle's engine and kicked off, pulled a fast turn and sped away, momentarily obscuring Batgirl with the cloud of dust he left behind.

Batman simply stood there, silently staring past Two-Face… past Batgirl… at the mocking red glow of a motorcycle taillight.


	16. After thoughts

Batgirl's head had turned when Robin drove away. She could only stare impassively after him until the motorcycle disappeared from view over the far side of an embankment. Whatever had just happened was between Robin and Batman… _Dick and Bruce_… none of her business, despite how unsettled it made her feel.

The Batman as ever and always had been unreadable, and she couldn't tell _what_ he felt at the sight of his two junior partners materializing before him soaking wet here in Central Park… if indeed he felt anything at all.

As quickly as it came, Barbara dismissed that notion. Batman had to have felt _something_. All that tension could _not_ have come just from Robin.

Robin.

Batgirl mentally shivered at the memory. If she thought he had been cold to her before, it was nothing like the vibe she got from him just now, right before he sped away. When she had first started working with the Dynamic Duo it had been Batman's rage that had frightened her the most, his ability to go from the emotionless, almost robotic detective to the creature so feared by Gotham City's underworld. It was a sickening feeling for her now how much more frightening she found Robin's frigidity than the Batman's anger. Whatever had happened this past year… Batgirl spent the night working alongside Robin, and while she'd been too preoccupied to think on it before, the realizations suddenly dawned: Robin hadn't made a single joke, tossed out a single pun, or even cracked a single goddamn smile. The attitude adjustment that she had interpreted before as just some type of typical teenaged angst apparently ran a lot deeper than that. It hit her now that Robin wasn't simply rebelling, and she swallowed thickly to realize that 'Short Pants' was gone.

_Oh, Dick…_

When the dust finally settled again she returned her focus to Batman. Her weary green eyes had lost none of their inquisitiveness despite all that's happened this evening. Thankfully the weight of her realizations about Robin managed to diffuse what was left of her considerable anger. She stared up at her sometimes-partner almost in resignation and waited patiently for him to _finally_ acknowledge her presence, all the while forcing herself not to think beyond the lovely shower and comfortable bed that awaited her back at her motel.

Wherever Batman had gone in the aftermath of Robin's exit, suddenly he seemed to return to himself again. The tension seemed to siphon some, or maybe it increased? Batgirl couldn't tell for certain, aside from the fact that _something_ now was different than it was the moment before, and not for the first time she wished that she could look into the eyes so carefully hidden behind the cowl.

Then a chilling realization hit her like a kick to the gut. She had seen Batman and Robin argue before, but never had it impeded their work. She had heard Batman order Robin back to the car, or to the cave, and always Robin—seething, had obeyed. She had seen them both ready to murder each other, and then the following morning when she'd gone up to the manor for Alfred's cookies and to swim in the pool and there had been nothing amiss with Dick _or_ Bruce. Either they were both exceptional actors, or—

Whatever had happened went beyond Batman and Robin. The stain had spread—or maybe _originated_ with Bruce and Dick. But no, she remembered one afternoon right around Dick's sixteenth birthday when he and Bruce had had one hell of a fight about his plans for a birthday party, and that same evening Batman and Robin were in top form. They were both too smart and too conscientious to let anything that happened during the day affect their commitments at night.

What, in the name of all things holy, had _happened_ between them? What could have changed Robin so completely, and turn Batman into a bigger jerk than—

_Oh. Oh… no._

Robin had been shot by the Joker.

That was it. That _had _to have been the start of everything. If Barbara's knees weren't locked they might have buckled in that moment. For the very first time, she had absolutely no idea what to do, as either Batgirl _or_ Barbara Gordon. And her eyes stung with the realization that—no matter how much she wanted to help, her efforts would not be welcomed.

They were Batman and Robin. She was just the newbie, the _fangirl_, the interloper, still sitting firmly on the outside of the fence, even when there was no Dynamic Duo to speak of anymore.

The moment was interrupted by the sound of approaching sirens. Batgirl's head snapped around when she heard them, and then back when a soft CHINK resounded at her feet. She glanced down quickly and saw a pair of Bat-cuffs sitting by her boots. She looked up again and saw that Batman was gone.

* * *

**Victor's apartment**

A rush of supernatural wind and a black streak descended through the ceiling into Victor's living room. When the obsidian entity reached the center of the room it suddenly billowed out from its center. An imagined sigh and the supernatural void shattered into nothingness, vomiting up the three lifeless forms formerly contained therein. Garfield, Raven, and Victor tumbled down to the carpeting with a simultaneous THUD.

"Nnnnngh." Garfield winced all over, curled into the fetal position, and hugged himself. "And to think I used to get motion-sick from the _tilt-o-whirl_…"

"Unnnghh," Victor groaned. He had landed half upside-down, propped up against the front of his own sofa. He shifted slightly and allowed his titanium body to flop over, and then found some semblance of a sitting position. "Just don't go pukin' on my rug," he groused.

Then suddenly his eyes widened and he came instantly alert. "Whoa! This _is_ my rug! And that's my couch! Shit, Gar, we're in my apartment!"

Garfield groaned again and opened his eyes. His nose was mere inches from one of Victor's GameStation controllers. He blinked hard and shot up to sitting.

"Dude! How the heck did we get _here?_"

"Hell if I know." Victor shook his head, blinked a few times, and mentally began a self-diagnostic to make sure that everything was working properly. "Well, at least whatever it was didn't do any damage."

Garfield rubbed at his head, his complexion greener than usual. "Dude… speak for yourself."

Victor laughed and climbed to his feet. Then he stuck out a hand and Garfield took it. The changeling was effortlessly lifted to standing. His legs were a bit wobbly but he easily held his balance… long enough to stumble towards the couch and plop down heavily.

"We need to talk, Gar," Victor said seriously from where he stood.

Gar looked up at his friend with wide, tired eyes. "Dude, can't it wait? It's, like, the middle of the night. I'm starving, and I feel like I could sleep for a week."

Victor deflated some. He sighed heavily and plopped down on the couch next to Garfield. "There's food in the fridge," he said. "I got enough to grill us some steaks but I don't think I can muster the energy to be bothered."

Gar laughed. "You? Not in the mood for dead, cooked, and edible? You _must_ be tired!"

"Yeah, well, I don't see _you_ heading towards the stove," Victor grumbled.

"Got anything that doesn't require lots of effort?"

Victor snorted. "Well that depends on what you consider 'effort.'"

"Ramen?"

"Man, don't you know the reason I got an apartment was so that I wouldn't have to settle for dorm food?"

Gar laughed. "The Easy-Mac still on the second shelf in the pantry?"

Victor sighed, defeated. "We finished it the other night. A box of the real thing should be in there somewhere, if you can spare the time to boil water."

Garfield flashed a winning grin. "That doesn't sound too hard."

Still smiling Gar stood from the couch and headed for the kitchen. He'd gone about three steps when something caught his eye:

"Raven!"

Victor's living room was an outgrowth of the kitchen, with the couch serving as the unofficial barrier between the rooms. The back of the couch faced the kitchen, and so expertly hid the crumpled form of the gothic sorceress until now. Gar dashed to her side in an instant and dropped down to his knees. Victor spun around where he sat, glanced down behind the couch, and was then vaulting over it to kneel at Raven's other side.

Raven was unconscious. Gar had a hand on her shoulder and was trying to shake her awake. "Raven!"

It didn't work, and he looked frantically to Victor, who was holding Raven's wrist and checking her pulse against the chronometer built into his forearm.

"Her pulse and breathing are steady, but damn slow," he informed, not sure what to make of it but concerned nonetheless.

"She won't wake up," Garfield told him, panic infusing his voice.

Victor put Raven's wrist down and reached up to tilt one of her eyelids back.

"She's responsive," he said, a contemplative frown on his face. "Does she look… _paler_, than usual?"

Gar took a good long look at Raven's face, but soon Victor was aware that he was thinking about much more than her complexion.

"Dude… it was her."

Victor blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Remember during the fight in the exhibit hall, when everything suddenly changed?"

Victor frowned. "You mean how the fight seemed to stop all of a sudden, and then the next moment it was over?"

Gar nodded emphatically. "It was her," he said. "It had to be."

"How do you figure?"

"When I was sitting in the tree, Raven was suddenly there. She, like, I dunno, materialized up out of the ground through some sorta energy field, or something. Then as soon as you got there… well, look where we ended up? Raven brought us here, dude. I'd bet my life on it. With that same black energy she used to get herself to my tree."

"So you're saying she teleported us?"

"Or transported us. Whatever. But Vic, back at the tree, right before you came, she was fine. Then all of a sudden she, like, got a migraine or something. And then all of a sudden we were here."

Victor sat back on his heels and ran a tired hand across his face. "And I thought it was weird just having _one_ meta in my class at Hudson…."

Gar chuckled. "Yeah. Me too."

"It makes sense though. I mean, look at her hair—and her eyes for that matter. They're that color naturally, and that's _gotta_ mean something."

"Wow," Gar breathed on a chuckle. "Of my three friends at school, this makes _Dick_ the normal one! And _he's_ the ward of a billionaire!"

Victor just shook his head. "But what was she doing at the museum? And how the heck did she find my apartment? She's never been here before."

"Well it's not like you have an unlisted number," Garfield pointed out. "And maybe she was there for the same reason you and me and Batgirl and Robin were. Maybe she was trying to stop Two-Face."

Victor sighed. He picked up one of Raven's too-pale hands, felt that her pulse hadn't changed any, and let the hand drop down to her side again. "The nearest I can figure is that she's asleep, or in some sorta trance or something. I guess we'll just have to wait until she wakes up. Then we can ask her."

Garfield nodded tiredly. Whatever additional adrenaline he felt in the wake of discovering Raven's body seemed to have dissipated. "So what do we do 'til then?"

"Well the couch pulls out into a bed. We could make that up for Raven. It would look less suspicious than a pterodactyl flying back to campus with an unconscious girl in his talons anyway. Let's just hope that she doesn't freak when she wakes up here. I don't want her goin' all voodoo in my living room."

Garfield's eyes suddenly narrowed, remembering the fate of Dick's wall mirror and light fixture on the night of their big argument with Raven. "Yeah…" he answered vaguely.

Victor was too tired and too preoccupied to notice. He was already heading towards the linen closet to grab sheets, pillows, and blankets.

"Give me a hand with this, will ya?"

And together the two teenagers prepared the foldaway mattress. When they were done Garfield turned himself into a gorilla and gently scooped Raven into his arms. He laid her atop the sofa-bed and then stepped back, transforming back into a human.

"You know, you could have just asked me to do it," Victor informed him with a smirk.

"Fur is more comfortable than titanium," Garfield pointed out. Then he frowned. "Now what?"

Victor shrugged. "I guess, cover her with a few blankets and head to bed ourselves."

"Shouldn't we, I dunno, at least take her shoes off? That can't be comfortable…"

"And what happens when she wakes up to you trying to undress her?"

Garfield winced. "Point taken."

With a communal sigh they covered Raven with a sheet and then an afghan. Victor walked over and set the thermostat to a more female-friendly temperature, double-checked that the front door was still locked, and then killed the lights. When he looked back he saw that Gar had removed his sneakers and was busy arranging the couch cushions into a makeshift mattress on the floor.

"You wouldn't happen to have something I could sleep in handy, would ya?"

Victor snorted. "Nothing that would fit you."

"Thought not," Gar said with a sigh. Then before Victor could say anything else, Gar dropped into housecat on top of a cushion. He kneaded the area a few times, turning in a circle before settling down to sleep.

"Are you paper trained?" Victor asked with a bemused grin.

The cat hissed at him.

Victor laughed. "Okay, little buddy. Good night."

With that, the cybernetic teen turned around and headed for his bedroom and his recharging station.

* * *

**Hudson University**

Forget the sound of screaming, ignore the sound of gunfire, and brush off the sound of the Joker's hideous laughter. Right now the most heinous and evil sound in the entire world… was the beeping of an alarm clock. Dick's alarm clock, which was just knocked to the floor in a bleary-eyed attempt to shut it off.

"Nnnnggggg," Dick groaned and rolled over, satisfied that the beeping had stopped.

Then suddenly he shot up straight. "My tests!"

In his efforts to scramble out of bed, Dick wound up getting entangled in the covers and promptly fell out of bed, landing on his head. A wince and curse and he untangled the rest of his legs and found himself seated awkwardly on the floor. He grabbed the alarm clock and his eyes bugged when he noticed the time: 7:41 a.m.

Dick didn't spare it another thought as he scrambled across the room to his dresser and grabbed a clean pair of boxers. Two seconds later and he was swiping his towel, shower sandals, and the necessary essentials from his closet. He dashed from his room towards the guy's bathroom and, only barely remembering to grab his key and lock the door behind him in the process.

Dick had been so tired when he got in last night that he barely had the strength to take his shoes off before falling into bed. After he left Batman it took quite a bit of fancy footwork to get the Redbird out of the museum without being noticed. Thankfully the police and emergency crews were quite well occupied. Then it was a long and boring ride back to campus, wherein he had to find a sheltered spot to pull over and change back into his civilian clothes. It was already after 4:30 when Dick arrived back at campus, and the mocking glow of false dawn chased him all the way to bed.

In his exhaustion he had forgotten that he'd already set his alarm for 7:30.

Dick managed to completely shower and brush his teeth in less than five minutes. He sprinted back to his room, fumbled slightly with the key in the lock, and nearly stumbled when the door swung open. He threw his towel and dirty clothes on the floor and his shower necessities onto the bed, not caring that they were wet. The snooze time had run out again and the alarm clock was beeping at him. Hastily he put it back on the nightstand and switched it off, noticing the time was 7:49. Dick switched the radio over to AM and turned it on almost as an afterthought. He wanted to hear whatever news he could concerning last night's… adventure… before heading down to his exams.

The news droned on as Dick got dressed and dragged a brush through his hair. Then finally, as he was tying his sneakers, that he heard the relevant broadcast:

_In our current late-breaking story, the criminal Harvey Dent, better known to the citizens of Gotham City as Two-Face, was apprehended early this morning after a failed robbery attempt at Manhattan's Metropolitan Museum of Art. Details are still sketchy at this point but what do know is that the villain was apprehended in what appears to be a joint FBI-NYPD operation. Our sources are currently trying to verify rumors of vigilante involvement. Official statements from both the police and the Federal Bureau of Investigation are forthcoming. We will have more details on this story as they arrive. _

_Now moving on to National News, a near plane crash at the Metropolis International Airport was averted this morning by Superman—_

_-_CLICK-

Satisfied for now, Dick turned off the radio, shoved a couple pens in his pockets, grabbed his keys, and headed for his exams.

It was 7:59 when he arrived back at Cabrini's office, and 8:03 when he found the conference room in the Science Building where his exams would take place. Dr. Beach was waiting for him, sipping coffee and reading the morning paper. The story about Two-Face was plastered all over the front page.

Dick tentatively cleared his throat.

"You're late," Beach answered without looking up.

"I'm sorry sir," Dick stammered quickly. "I was at the office at eight, and then saw the sticky note you left on the door—"

"Relax, kid," Beach said with a faint smile as he put the newspaper down. "You remember the adage, 'early is on time and on time is late'? Well you'd better mark it good if you're going to be taking classes with me."

Dick swallowed nervously. He knew what his advisor was saying—that he was fully expected to ace these exams. Dick was hopeful, but his study time had been seriously crimped by the 'night life,' and after the way last night had ended… failing these exams would have been the perfect capper to the entire week.

"I'll do my best, sir," he assured with as much confidence as he could muster.

"Of course you will," Beach informed him, rather dismissively if you asked Dick. "Now sit down and we'll get started."

Dick did as he was told while Beach fished out a rather thick packet of paper and an ominously large stack of BlueBook testing booklets.

"Cabrini's exams are fairly straight-forward. There's the usual—multiple choice, true/false, fill in the blank, and a few diagrams for you to label."

Dick nodded as he accepted the packet. Then to his surprise Beach pulled out _another_ sheet of paper.

"And this," he said, "is the short answer and essay section. Word to the wise, kid, if you do the essays first you won't have time to finish the other packet, but if you do the packet first you'll have to BS your way through the essays. Cabrini likes to see which ones his students prefer, sort of a last-minute test for his own personal gratification. Take your pick, kid. Ace either section and you'll have enough points to ace the test—fly through both sections so that you have time to answer everything and I guarantee you won't do nearly as well."

Dick was so tired that he couldn't help the laugh.

"Something funny?"

"No, Dr. Beach," he answered truthfully. "Just not surprising either."

"Yeah, well, you'd better get started. I'm supposed to collect that from you at noon, even if you're mid-sentence. Got it?"

Dick nodded.

"Good. I'm going to finish my paper here, and then I'll be in and out. I'm supposed to remind you of the consequences of plagiarism and cheating and all the crap, but I doubt that's necessary. I'm also supposed to tell you can go to the bathroom as often as you need without asking me, but too many trips will look suspicious. Hmm, let's see, what else… Oh! If you have any questions about the test, well I haven't sat through a psych class in nigh on twenty years, but whatever I may remember is at your disposal."

Dick smirked at that. He got the hint. If he needed to ask questions then he had no business taking this exam.

"All right then. It's 8:10. I'll be lenient and give you until 12:10. Good luck, Mr. Grayson."

"Thank you, Dr. Beach."

* * *

**Victor's apartment**

It was exactly noon when Victor Stone came out of recharge. His father had set the cycle to last exactly eight hours whenever his son charged his batteries. Victor could shorten or lengthen that time as needed, but an eight-hour sleep cycle is the most reminiscent of normal human behavior, and Victor found that oddly comforting.

After waking, Victor turned on the radio and went to the corner of his bedroom where the sonic shower sat. His titanium is waterproof, but this is far more effective and takes nearly a fraction of the time. When he finally emerged from the bedroom he noticed that Raven had shifted during the night. She was now resting on her side, and her complexion looked much better. She seemed to be breathing better, too, so Victor let her be. He headed for the kitchen to rummage up some breakfast.

"Dude… put some clothes on…"

Victor turned around to see Gar seated on the couch cushions, stretching awkwardly.

"Hey man, I'm not naked," Victor defended. "You can't be mostly titanium and naked—just ask any android!"

"But dude, you're not an android," Gar informed him plainly. "Though I think for every time you mention Odo I get to bring up Data."

Victor was silent, seeming in that moment to be oddly thoughtful.

"How'd _she_ do last night?" he eventually asked, jabbing his head towards the still-slumbering Raven by way of changing the subject.

"Slept like a baby nearest I can tell," said Gar. "I just woke up a few minutes ago, when I heard you using an electric razor or something."

Victor laughed. "That was my sonic shower."

Garfield's eyes went wide. "You actually _have_ one of those—I mean, they actually exist? Whoa! Dude, those were, like, a _prop_, on _Space Trek_!"

"Face it, dawg. Science fiction usually finds ways of becoming science _fact_."

"Whoa…. Can I see it?"

Victor simpered. "Uh… maybe later."

Victor managed to find all the fixings to make pancakes, and the two friends feasted like they hadn't eaten for weeks. When they were done they made a few extra for Raven and left them in the microwave to be reheated when she awoke. Then Garfield as an octopus made short work of the dishes. Finally they were both sitting at the kitchen table, using the excuse of Raven still being asleep in the next room to keep them from getting up.

"So…" Garfield tried, but failed. He nodded once, simpering.

"So." Victor replied, echoing his friend.

"Last night was…" but then his voice trailed off.

"Yeah…" Victor agreed, though neither was exactly sure what he agreed on.

Finally Garfield sighed, steeling himself. He took a deep breath, and asked: "Vic, are you mad at me?"

Victor sighed just as deeply, running a hand over the human side of his face.

"I lost track of how many times we nearly died last night," he admitted truthfully. "And those guards we freed? They could have died too—at least one of them nearly did. And we led them straight to the fight like the bloody cavalry or something."

Garfield bit his lip and hung his head, guilty.

"You think we just made things worse?" Gar asked, though his tone spoke that he already suspected the answer. "You think that Batman and Robin and Batgirl didn't really need our help, and that all we did—" his breath hitched "—was get in the way?"

"I don't know, man," Victor replied, sounding defeated. "Sure that's the first thing that comes to mind when I think about it, but then… we didn't force the guards to fight, we just sorta got caught up in their enthusiasm. And I dunno, maybe the Bats could have taken the bad guys down without their help—or without the fire alarm and the sprinklers distracting everybody. I listened to the news this morning while I showered… Two-Face has been captured, along with all of his men and the turncoat guards. The display cases were wrecked, but there wasn't any damage to the exhibits, and the Egyptian government is grateful. The guards that got shot are gonna survive, and the only other casualties were the cops standing around outside when the sewers blew."

Garfield sat still, quietly absorbing this information. He looked troubled.

"What is it?"

Garfield sighed tiredly and dragged his fingers through his unkempt green hair. When he finally met Victor's eyes he looked slightly lost, yet no less determined.

"I saw Batman," he said at last. "He shot out Two-Face's tires from the Batplane—that's why the hummer flipped. I was so surprised when it happened—everything happened so fast, that I turned back into a human. And Batman saw me, Vic. He stared at me for, like, forever. Two-Face was unconscious and Batman just stood there on top of the hummer, staring at me, sizing me up, trying to decide if I was a threat or not."

Victor blinked in surprise. When he'd arrived, Garfield and Raven were already by the tree and Two-Face was already lying unconscious on the grass with Batman, Batgirl and Robin surrounding him. "And then what?" he prompted eagerly.

Gar snorted a half-hearted, bitter laugh. "Then what? He ignored me, dude. He went back to the business of dragging Dent from the wreckage. When he came to, Batman knocked his lights out—but good! You could have heard that punch for blocks I bet. But by then I'd already turned into a hawk and gone to hide in the tree."

Garfield fell quiet then, contemplative.

"_And?_" Victor prompted again, not wanting the story to end.

Garfield sighed heavily, closing his eyes and sitting back in his chair. He was silent for many moments before speaking again.

"When I was a kid in Gotham… we'd all heard about the Batman, heard the stories… how he isn't really a man, drinks human blood, flies on leather wings, and a whole bunch of other stuff you wouldn't believe."

"I dunno man," Victor interjected. "Gotham's created villains like the Joker and that 'Scarface' creep you told me about. If that city can produce shit like _that_, there's no tellin' _what_ else."

Garfield laughed slightly. "Do you know what Gotham's villains all have in common?" he redirected. "One of my foster-father told me once, when he was upset that I had nightmares about Batman."

Victor blinked, not understanding, so Garfield explained:

"They're all humans—well, at least they all _used_ to be. Back in Metropolis you've got freakin' Brainic and Mxyzptlk and stuff, but Gotham? If you cut away all the terror and all the hype, the Joker's just a fucked up sociopathic comedian with bleached skin, dude. And even the metas we've got… something happened to make them the way they are, warped their minds and made them evil.

"But they're all human minds, Vic. Ordinary human minds. My foster-father told me that, and since he was an expert on the seriously creepy I believed him. And he said that the same thing was true of Batman—that he was just an ordinary human with a warped and twisted mind trying to achieve the extraordinary. The only difference was… Batman didn't become a villain.

"And then I saw him last night Vic. And… my foster father was right. He's just a man, a man in a cape and a pointy-eared cowl. And he looked at me, Vic. I mean, I'm almost tempted to believe the stories about him being able to, like, read a person's soul and stuff. He looked at me Vic… and I passed."

Victor couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.

"Don't you see? Heck, you know my past… that I've been associated with people the Batman has had to bring to justice. As a meta living in Gotham with who I had for wannabe dads… I used to be afraid that, one night, the Batman would come knocking. Ever since I was old enough to hear the stories and to be—to be frightened by them."

Garfield fell silent again, hanging his head. Victor could tell that he was fighting a personal battle, with his conscience and with what he desired to say. Then finally Gar spoke again:

"Do you have any idea how easy it would have been for me to make a buck in Gotham?"

Victor shook his head, and Gar sadly smirked.

"Do you have any idea how many people would have paid for a fly on the wall, so to speak? Or for—for someone to—snakes, Vic," Gar stuttered, embarrassed. Vulnerable. "I can do snakes. And other things. I could have made a fortune doing things like that. And I would have been sent to Arkham if they caught me, which meant I would have been back on the streets in no time. Have you ever been offered millions of dollars, Vic? Just because you're a freak?"

Victor couldn't answer him.

"The Deytons, they were fantastic about stuff like that. Rita really did a good job reassuring me that—that I didn't have to do that, that I _shouldn't_ do that. That I was better than that. But really though, they didn't have to worry. I would have never used my… talents… to do anything bad. I was too afraid that the big bad Batman would get me."

This time when Gar finished Victor could tell that he had no intentions of saying more. It was long, and difficult, but his friend had finally spoken his peace.

Now Victor just had to figure out his own.

"Is that why you wanted to go after Two-Face so badly?" he asked at length. "Not just because of all the shit he's put you through, but because you needed to be a hero?" His words sounded harsh and Victor winced when he heard himself say them, so he added: "Because in Gotham, metas like us are either villains or heroes, and there is no in between." Then quieter, as an afterthought: "No chance for a normal life."

Gar laughed again, another brief, bitter laugh. "Normal?" he scoffed. "Look at me, Vic—look at you? Whoever told you that we were normal was on crack, dude. We aren't 'normal,' and we never will be."

"So what are you saying?" Victor pressed. "That, like everyone else whose had shit happen to them, we should—as you say, try for something extraordinary with our lives? Are you gonna start quoting _Spiderman_ now, about great power meaning great responsibility and all that jazz?"

"Well it makes sense, dude!" Gar defended. "I can do things with my life—great things or—or t—terrible things." His stammering only served to further lay bare his soul. Exposed, Gar looked down. "And in Gotham…" he added quietly, "there's so many terrible things."

As much as he regretted Garfield's discomfort, Victor's first reaction was to scoff. "Oh yeah? Well we got our share of nut-jobs in Metropolis too, dawg. That doesn't mean I want to go buddy up to Superman and ask him if he needs my help."

"What _were_ you going to do then?" Gar asked suddenly, honestly. "With your life. When you finished school?"

Victor frowned. "What's this 'were' crap?" he asked incredulously. "What I _am_ going to do, is go into engineering or robotics or something, further the research into cybernetics a bit so that more people whose parents don't have gazillions in settlement money can walk again. And when I'm not in a lab I'm gonna spend time volunteering at children's hospitals and rehab centers, working with amputees and kids with birth defects, trying to show them that they might be _different_ but no less capable—no less _normal_ than anybody else.

"Are you going to tell me that that's not good enough for someone like me, Gar? Are you trying to say that using my accident to help disabled children is not an extraordinary thing to do?"

Under Victor's piercing gaze Garfield looked stricken. He dropped his head again, recoiling into himself.

"Uh—of course not, Vic," he said quickly, staring at the floor. "I would never…"

Victor sighed in frustration. He didn't want to be having this discussion.

Heavy, tense silence descended.

"Immunobiology," Gar eventually muttered.

"Huh?"

"Zoology was just to see if I could hack it at school—if I could get the biology and chemistry and stuff. If I couldn't, then zoology would have been fine—I could focus on animal behaviors instead of animal biology. But what I really want—is to go into immunobiology. I want to research how the body fights off disease. I was going to focus on the really nasty stuff—ebola, anthrax, stuff like that. With my… condition… If an animal can't die from it, then neither can I, and all the times we've cured cancer in rats but not in humans? Those treatments would work on me. I want to eventually go back to Africa… maybe—maybe help cure AIDS."

Gar looked up at Victor so hesitantly that the cybernetic teen couldn't help but smile.

"That's wonderful Gar," he reassured. "You'd be using your gift to help people, in a real world way that doesn't involve code names and and spandex."

Gar nodded. "Rita said that—that it was a way of making sense outta what happened to me. That if I can turn my condition into something good, then it's like my getting sick had some sorta meaning. Like it served a higher purpose. And I wanna believe that, Vic. I wanna believe that I'm a green-skinned animporhing freak for a reason. A _good_ reason."

Victor was silent a long while after that, contemplating both Garfield's situation, and his own. Then finally he asked:

"What are you trying to atone for?"

Garfield turned his head up and looked Victor in the eye. He swallowed thickly and blinked once, and Victor knew that the question would go unanswered.

Then suddenly he didn't have to.

"Does it matter?"

Both Victor and Garfield whirled around in their seats to see Raven standing by the couch. She had pulled her robe about her, to cover her sleep-tussled hair, and she regarded her friends with ritualistic impassivity. Victor's jaw dropped and Garfield looked like he was going to be sick.

"How long have you been standing there?" Victor asked when he regained his voice.

"Long enough," Raven droned emotionlessly. She stood there, on the threshold of the kitchen, partially hidden in the folds of her robe. She stared at them, seemingly blankly, but something was alit behind her passionless amethyst eyes. Some inner fire was burning in hidden thoughts, and to the boys it seemed as though she was conflicted in an analytical way, as though she was silently weighing her options.

Then finally she sighed inaudibly, and the ice melted from her countenance. She pulled her hood back, revealing slightly messy violet hair, and in the noonday sun she looked… human. More human than either had ever seen her before. She stood for but a moment, and then walked over to the kitchen table, and claimed the empty between the two friends, instantly sitting at the head of a round table. Two sets of eyes rested on her, and perhaps they only imagined it, but she seemed briefly to smile at them.

"You brought us here," Gar half stated, half accused.

Raven nodded.

"How?" Victor asked. "How did you know where I live?"

Raven sighed, blinking slowly. When she opened her eyes, they flashed to molten pewter and a supernatural wind rushed through the kitchen. One by one the windows flew opened, all throughout the kitchen and living room. The moment they were done the wind died down and Raven's eyes returned to normal.

"What…" Gar stammered. "What are you?"

"I'm like you," she explained, her voice expressionless. "Different. Only I was born this way."

Gar wanted to ask another question, but he bit his tongue instead, afraid.

"Half," Raven said, answering what went unasked. It seemed then that a certain warmth descended into Raven's person. "My mother is human."

"And your dad?" Victor asked before he could stop himself.

The gust of wind returned and Raven's eyes flew shut. Suddenly Victor's toaster exploded on the counter, and everybody winced. Raven's stoic chill returned, and when she opened her eyes the amethyst had turned to ice.

"My father—" she began harshly, then cut herself off and took a calming breath. "Exists on a different dimensional plane than this reality."

"And that's where your powers come from?" Garfield asked tentatively.

"My father… is powerful," Raven explained, her emotions once again firmly under wraps. "I have inherited only a fraction of what he possesses."

"What can you do?" Gar asked eagerly, forgetting himself in the moment.

Raven simply glared at him.

"Eh," he simpered. "That's okay. You don't have to answer that."

"But I still wanna know how you found my apartment," Victor pressed. "I don't ever remember telling you."

"I saw its image in Garfield's mind," Raven explained, acquiescing to Victor's need to know that information.

Gar nearly prat-falled. "DUDE! You can read my mind?" He sounded half amazed, half indignant.

Raven retreated farther into herself, trying to escape the torrent of his surface thoughts and emotions.

"Not as such," she explained, half wincing. "I am more empathic than telepathic. I can sense emotions, but I can only hear _blatant_ surface thoughts."

"What the heck does _that_ mean?" Victor demanded a bit more forcefully than he intended.

Raven shut her eyes, wincing again. "Nothing," she hissed. "Not for you. You think in ones and zeroes. I can't decipher it. But you're troubled by the realization, and are manifesting it by way of anger."

Victor blinked, taken aback. "Wow… You mean I actually _think_ in binary? That even my _thoughts_ are cybernetic?"

Raven sensed the distress this revelation caused him. That hadn't been her intent.

She ignored it.

"What about me?" Gar asked, almost fearfully. "You can, like, see pictures from my head?"

"Your thoughts are frantic," said Raven with only the barest hints of contempt. "You can change into animals, and that explains it. Your thoughts and emotions are…" _Primal? Instinctive?_ "Intense," she settled on at last.

Gar blinked. "…Huh?"

"Nnnng," Raven groaned a sigh. "Your mind is loud and hard to decipher and I get headaches for trying."

Gar simpered. "Oh… Heh heh… Sorry?"

"Wow," Victor said suddenly. "What are the odds of the three metas at Hudson U all being friends?"

Raven blinked and Gar arched and eyebrow. Victor shrugged dismissively.

"Like seeks like," Raven pointed out. Then she muttered: "even involuntarily."

"So you can read people and stuff," said Gar, getting them back on track. "Kinda freaky—but still cool n'all. But it doesn't explain how you made Vic's toaster blow up, or open the windows—"

"Or teleport us magically to my living room," Victor finished.

Raven blinked again, silent.

"We aren't trying to give you the third degree here," Garfield explained gently. "It's just that, well Vic's a cyborg and I'm a green shape-shifter. Pretty straight forward. We just wanna understand what makes you different, Raven. Different like us. Please…"

His voice was almost pleading, and Raven inaudibly sighed. It seemed that more of the ice left her countenance again, imperceptibly making her more human in their eyes.

"My powers are complex," she said at length, though not unkindly. "Unless you have a background in meditative studies or eastern religion you won't understand their nature."

"Just tell us what you do then," Victor directed. "We don't need to know _how_ you do it."

Raven blinked, confused, as though she wasn't aware that there was a difference.

"I use my mind to manipulate things on the spiritual plane—the _astral_ plane you call it. I can use it to sense your emotions and to read your surface thoughts—thoughts that you aren't trying to keep hidden. I cannot delve below what's immediately on your mind. I can use this connection to the astral plane to move things telekinetically—though my strength in the field is… unexplored." Raven paused, taking a deep breath, before continuing: "and I can travel through it—_transporting_, not teleporting. It's not instantaneous. Just… faster. And… I can bring people with me."

"So _that's_ how we got here?" Gar asked. "You found an image of Vic's apartment in my surface thoughts and then you pulled us all through the astral plane to get here?"

Raven nodded, slightly modest.

All three were silent then, until:

"DUDE! We, like, have our very own Jean Gray!"

Victor's intent expression suddenly turned comical. "Pffft, what Jean? She's like, _Phoenix_ man, all the way."

"Nnnngggggh," Raven winced at the tangent.

"Ahem…" Gar shoved the thoughts (and humor) aside. "That's… really great, Raven."

Raven's sarcastic retort was diffused by the unbridled sincerity she sensed from the shape-shifter. Instead she merely shook her head.

"No," she said. "They aren't. My powers aren't anything… until I do something with them."

Victor sighed in defeat, sensing where this was going. "You mean, your powers are great if you do good things, and terrible if you do bad things?" It was a rhetorical question.

Raven sighed inaudibly. She had heard enough of her friends' earlier conversation to guess their thoughts even without her empathy. She knew what they both were thinking, and more than that she knew how she herself felt. The only uncertainty… was whether or not she could live with it.

"I… don't make friends easily," she confessed with difficulty. "Of the three that I have made, two of them are sitting here now."

Both Victor and Garfield sat up straighter at that.

"And then there's Dick," Raven continued after a bit of a pause. "Dick had been missing for days. We were all… concerned… especially his friend from Gotham."

"Barbara?" Gar offered.

Raven nodded vacantly. "Yes… Barbara." Then she blinked, returning her focus to present company, and to Garfield in particular. "When Victor told me that he couldn't find you, I… felt his worry. Better than he had articulated it to me in our passing conversation." Raven paused again, collecting her thoughts, formulating her words.

"Dick… is a very private person. His thoughts are well shielded. I tried to find him with my powers—locate him through his thoughts and emotions, but…" Raven let her statement wander off. "Garfield's mind however… Victor's concern was real, no matter how founded or unfounded. And I had already misplaced one friend. I did not want to lose another. So… I searched for you, Garfield. It took my powers a while to reach you all the way in Manhattan… but once there, I found you quite easily."

"At the museum…" Gar breathed, interrupting.

Raven nodded.

"And you went looking," Victor supplied, connecting the dots. Then he laughed suddenly. "And found a royal mess."

"I found myself in the exhibit hall," Raven explained. "The chaos there—of thought and emotion… was intense. It took me a while to find you—to find both of you."

"And you came there to save us," Victor concluded.

Raven cocked her head to the side, thoughtful. "I sensed Garfield's anger," she said. "His sense of injustice… the desire to make things right. From you, Victor… all I found was worry, in varying degrees. You asked Gar what he was trying to atone for. That question is irrelevant. He should be asking you… what are you afraid of?"

Stunned silence at the table. Victor looked like he'd just been slapped. Gar gulped, his throat suddenly dry. Raven seemed to be waiting patiently for an answer.

"I didn't want us to get killed!" Victor suddenly exclaimed, as though the explanation were obvious. "I mean, we were being shot at and nearly blown to bits—what did you _think_ I was worried about?"

"I don't know," Raven deadpanned. "That's for you to tell us."

Victor opened his mouth like he was going to shout an angry retort.

"Or don't," Raven interrupted, raising a hand and cutting him off. "If it's going to make you upset. But know this, Victor Stone: for mortals, anger is not a solitary emotion. It always acts as the cover for something else—fear, guilt, pain, sadness, shame. These are what we really feel, but they hurt us, so we dress them up in anger as a way to protect ourselves. What are you protecting yourself from, Victor? You would do well… to figure that out."

Silence descended again, this time contemplative.

"I need to go," Raven announced after a time. "Meditate…" She seemed more introspective, speaking to no one. The she stood up and closed her eyes.

"Raven!" Gar grabbed her attention. When she glared at him he simpered. "Thank you," he demurred, quietly honest.

Once again Raven's anger was diffused by the purity of his sincerity. She managed to smile thinly at him. Then she closed her eyes and extended her soul self. A raven's cry resounded through the astral plane and the gothic sorceress disappeared in a bird-shaped vortex of obsidian.

Both boys stared blankly at the spot she just vacated, stricken with the sheer _power_ of her powers.

"Phoenix…" Victor muttered, reaffirming.

Gar nodded "Yeah…" He swallowed thickly. "_Dark_ Phoenix."

The two friends were silent for some time. Then, when they finally returned to the present and turned to face each other, it seemed as though there was nothing left to say.

"So… what do we do now?" Gar asked, speaking more for the sake of breaking the silence than to actually voice the question.

Victor shrugged, realizing that there was no answer.

"I think…" Gar hesitated. "I think I'm gonna go for a flight. Or maybe—maybe a swim, or something. Something to clear my head."

Victor nodded, understanding the need and contemplating something similar for his own gratification.

"And I wanna see if I can catch Dick on the way out of his exams—find out how they went."

Victor laughed the laugh of the uncomfortable. "Feeling the need to find something normal?"

Garfield simply stared at him.

Victor sighed, deflating from the failed attempt at humor. "Are you gonna tell him about last night?"

Gar pensively bit his lip. He looked away.

"Heh… Not that he'd believe us anyway…" Victor mumbled, admitting defeat.

"Well, he _is_ from Gotham…" Gar offered, finally managing a smile.

Victor laughed, and it seemed the mood had lightened somewhat. Then Garfield turned to go.

"Wait!" Victor called out, and Gar turned back around, but when the shape-shifter's glittering green eyes settled on his cybernetic form again he suddenly lost his nerve. "Say hi to Dick for me," he substituted with a shrug, nervously breaking eye contact.

Gar seemed thoughtful but then he nodded. "Okay," he replied, then he made his way towards one of the open windows. "I'll see ya around." Two seconds later and a green pigeon flew out of the apartment.

Victor stood staring for a long moment; then he walked forward and shut the window, and then every other window after that. Secure within his apartment, Victor returned to his bedroom—which doubles as his makeshift electronics lab. When he shut the door behind him, he caught sight of his reflection in the full-length mirror. Victor paused, gazing into his own eyes, momentarily lost in thought. Then in a sudden fit of disgust he wrenched the door opened again and watched as it swung violently around, taking the mirror out of view. He stomped heavily over to his desk and sat down, head falling hastily into hands a moment as he sighed tiredly, trying to collect himself.

* * *

**Hudson University**

"So how do you think you did on Beach's exam?"

Dick had just handed Cabrini his criminology final, and the professor accepted it with a smirk and a question.

Dick shrugged. "My wrist hurts," was all he managed to say.

"I'm not surprised," Cabrini responded truthfully. "Franklin's memories of drowning in a seas of paperwork have come back to torment his students." He idly flipped through Dick's exam, and whistled. "Eighteen pages… Could be worse," he appraised with a thoughtful nod. "Though your penmanship deteriorates towards the end."

Dick smiled ruefully. "At least it's done."

"Don't sound so enthusiastic," Cabrini admonished sarcastically. "Well anyway, I hope you were alert enough to string a few coherent thoughts together. I'd hate to find out that you just spent my afternoon writing eighteen pages of _all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy_."

That quote simultaneously reminded Dick of Two-Face's double-speak, the Joker's disjointed ramblings, the Riddler's riddles, and the Hatter's stolen poetry. He visibly shivered.

"I think my greatest offenses are the run-on sentences," he confessed truthfully, shrugging off the intruding thoughts.

Cabrini chuckled. "Oh Frank'll just _love _that. You're lucky he doesn't take off for grammar."

Dick's reply was cut off by a fierce yawn.

"Jeez, kid, you come in here exhausted—bags under your eyes and everything, limping slightly, and with aching wrists. I don't think I want to _know_ what you did last night…" Cabrini was only half-joking.

Dick's face-splitting yawn had left him dizzy, with spots dancing before his eyes. He grabbed the desk to steady himself and missed Cabrini's eyes narrowing in scrutinizing concern. When Dick's vision returned he blinked at Cabrini in confusion, having missed what the professor just said to him.

"On second thought, kid, what _were_ you doing last night? Not running marathons again, are you?"

Dick fidgeted nervously for a second before coming to his senses and forcing himself to stop. "I… had a rough week," he offered truthfully.

"Yeah you look it," Cabrini agreed sardonically. "Partying until dawn? Or has studying just become a contact sport."

Dick's facial reaction conveyed a bizarre mix of nervousness and indignation, covered completely by exhaustion. "I—"

But Cabrini cut him off with the wave of a hand. "Relax, Grayson. I just finished grading your Psych exam—you got a 92. Maybe you're one of those kids who can party 'til dawn and still pull straight A's. If so then you're lucky and I make it policy to mind my own business, but Richard," and here Dr. Cabrini's face grew deadly serious. "If you can do this well with minimal effort, just think what you could achieve if you just tried a little bit harder."

Cabrini had sounded so earnest that Dick didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"So I have a 92 for a final grade?" he asked instead.

"That was the deal, kid. As far as I'm concerned you're done with Intro Psych."

Dick smiled genuinely in relief for a moment. Then: "so what now?"

"Stop by during office hours tomorrow and we'll find something else for you to take instead. Oh and a grade report will be mailed as soon as the paper-pushers get around to it."

"Thank you, Dr. Cabrini. I— … I really appreciate this."

"Hey, it's better than having you upstage me in class every Monday. Now beat it Grayson; go take a nap or something. You've eaten up enough of my Sunday as it is."

Dick grinned and nodded. He needn't to be told twice.

Dr. Xavier Cabrini watched from the teacher's desk as Dick Grayson turned and walked out of the room. He noted again how the boy seemed to be favoring his right leg and couldn't help but be curious. Dr. Franklin Beach entered the room a minute later, rousing Cabrini from his thoughts.

"How'd he do?"

"He did well enough on mine," Cabrini answered, handing over Dick's criminology exam. "Not sure about yours."

Beach accepted the stack of four BlueBooks and thumbed lazily through them.

"We get an earthquake I don't know about?"

Cabrini snorted. "More like Grayson didn't get enough sleep last night."

Beach nodded. "Was he still changing hands?"

"I was too busy grading to notice," Cabrini confessed, but there was interest in it.

"He would write with his right hand until it began to bother him. Then he'd shake it out and switch over to his left for a few minutes, and switch back after a few questions."

"Hum. No, I didn't notice." Pause. "Did you notice the limp?"

Beach nodded. "What about his knuckles?"

Cabrini blinked. "Knuckles?"

"They were red—especially his right ones."

"Well, I _did_ ask him if studying had become a contact sport…"

Beach arched an eyebrow.

"Seriously though," Cabrini redirected, "we know the kid likes to run. Maybe he's into other sports as well? I could easily believe Grayson still keeps up his gymnastics."

"The last 'Flying Grayson' still flies, eh?"

"It wouldn't surprise me."

Beach nodded absently, thoughtful.

* * *

Garfield had spent his day in the sky, soaring above the clouds as a bight green eagle. For the most part he was gliding, content to ride the wind currents as he circumnavigated Long Island by staying above its beaches. The people looked so miniscule milling about beneath him that for a few fleeting moments he was able to pretend that his problems were small and insignificant, too.

Towards the end of the day Gar returned to the university, transforming back into human form in the restroom of the café, which he accessed as a green dragonfly through an opened window. He only looked slightly windblown when as he walked back across campus to the dorms. When he entered his room it did not occur to him that anyone had gained entry recently. He stuffed a duffle bag full of necessities, grabbed his towel, changed into flip-flops, and headed for the showers.

He stayed in the water a long time, but couldn't make himself feel clean.

* * *

Dick Grayson was beyond tired. As he stumbled back across campus towards his dorm room, it was all he could manage to continually place one foot in front of the other.

Two-Face and all of his cronies were in custody. The Egyptian exhibit was safe. There were no fatalities—though a few officers were still in intensive care recovering from burns. These facts are what allowed Dick Grayson to sleep well for a few scarce hours last night.

Of course there were other thoughts and emotions swirling around in his head, and now, bereft finally of blessed distraction, his tired mind couldn't keep them from swarming. Thoughts about Garfield Logan, Victor Stone, and Raven Roth… about Barbara Gordon, Harvey Dent… and Batman.

Garfield Logan had set himself up to stop the robbery, recklessly trying to be a hero. Not that Dick had ever truly doubted Gar's intentions, but the shape-shifter had shown his true colors last night, and they were for the side of justice. Either that or revenge, but Dick was rather quick to doubt that. Besides, from what he's seen of Garfield Logan, he was absolutely convinced that the green animorph's motives in life are… purer… than that.

Victor Stone had also stood up to be counted, and his obvious loyalty to Garfield was both commendable and heartening. Dick was happy for their friendship, instinctively realizing how difficult it must have been for both of them to make friends with the so-called 'normal' population. He was glad that they had apparently found someone to relate to, and Dick knew that their similarities would only bring them closer together. He knew that because it's how he and Roy Harper should have been, as the only non-meta members of the original Teen Titans.

In the back of his mind though, Dick was glad for Victor Stone's existence for an entirely different, selfish reason. With Victor to turn to, Garfield would stop trying to rely so heavily on the _other_ person he could relate to: the also tragically orphaned Gothamite Dick Grayson. While Dick truly did value Gar's friendship, such close personal ties are dangerous for someone with a secret identity. Victor made it possible for Dick to keep Garfield at arm's length without worrying about hurt feelings, and that was good for _Robin_.

Then there was Raven.

Dick had to wonder what stake she had in all of this. Did she go with Garfield to the museum? Her ambiguous approach to friendship made him doubt a lot of things that would have been natural to assume. Nevertheless, she was there last night, and she provided for Vic's and Gar's escape, proving what Dick has suspected all along: she too is metahuman. The depth of her powers though, he could only guess.

Robin thought to contact Zatanna, or perhaps J'onn J'onzz, someone who could give him some insights into Raven's mind and/or abilities, but Dick Grayson deferred on that plan. Regardless of all else… Raven had saved Batgirl.

Batgirl…

Barbara.

By rights she should be dead—shot through the heart by Harvey Dent. Yet she was alive and breathing today because of Raven.

The image of her staring down the barrel of Two-Face's gun—the gun that Robin had thrown to him no less, and the deafening echo of the shot would forever haunt Dick Grayson's nightmares. After all, he already knew what her costume would look like with the front stained with blood. He had sent such a reminder to Batman…

Batman…

Bruce.

Robin had let Two-Face slip through his fingers right into the Batman's waiting gauntlets. Mentally he connected the dots… how Barbara had found him here because of the tabloid photos he'd allowed to happen after his disastrous visit to Bruce's hotel room. Bruce had likely tracked her here by her credit cards, just as he had. He, Dick Grayson, had brought both of them here with his carelessness. With his stupidity. His ineffectiveness… His failure that had cost him Two-Face, that had nearly killed Barbara—who wouldn't have even been there that night if it weren't for—

Dick winced, squinting his eyes shut. Try as he might he could not block out these thoughts, and now that he's done with his exams—with the last shred of obligation on his plate, there was nothing left to distract him. The sting of his failure—the shame, the guilt; it brought up emotions that he would rather not deal with—emotions that now bled to the surface of his tired mind. The exhausted mantra of the black and white success of last night that had fueled him had just run dry. Thankfully his dorm room—and the prospect of a comfortable bed and better solitude, was waiting at the end of the hall…

* * *

Finally Garfield made his way out of the showers. He was headed back to his room, not really feeling much better for his efforts, when he suddenly caught sight of something that gave him cause to smile.

"Dick!"

And smile Garfield did, and broadly, as he bounded down the hall with renewed energy towards his long-lost friend, shower equipment forgotten yet still firmly in hand. He saw Grayson turn in confusion at the sound of his name being called, and so Gar called out again: "Yo! Dick!"

When Dick's eyes finally settled on the petit green teenager obviously fresh from the showers it took all of his mental reserves not to flinch. He managed a slightly vacant smile though, if only for that fact that Gar seemed to be comfortable enough in his green skin now to head to the showers covered only in boxers and a bathrobe.

"Gar," Dick managed to nod his head in acknowledgement.

The animorph skidded to a stop in front of Dick and his pleasure at this unexpected meeting enabled the smiley, bubbly part of his personality to momentarily shine through, completely shielding his inner turmoil so that any other person would have had no clues of its existence.

Dick, of course, wasn't just any other person, and a lesson in dramatic irony ensued.

"Dude, how'd those tests go?"

"Well enough I think," Dick answered truthfully, tiredly.

"Man, I hope you find out soon. We haven't seen you in, like, a week! We so gotta take you out to celebrate."

Dick couldn't help the laugh. "I look forward to it," he heard himself saying. "After life returns to normal around here."

That simple statement, spoken without thought, struck an invisible chord somewhere. It seemed then that the silence grew heavy as Dick fought to keep himself impassive and Garfield seemed torn.

"Normal…" Gar breathed on the tail of a sigh. Then suddenly he smiled again, as though whatever he was angsting over had been resolved. "You know, I just mentioned to Vic that you're the only normal dude I know around here, as if being able to buy out the state of New York with your allowance money is normal—no offense."

Dick laughed uneasily. While there was _so much_ he could say to that… there was really nothing he could say to that.

Gar seemed oblivious though. Indeed, his thoughts had suddenly strayed far, far away. For everything that had just happened—for his past and right now in the present, Dick Grayson was _normal_. Sure he grew up in a circus and saw his parents murdered only to have himself taken in by the richest man on the planet, but there he stood, with his only care in that moment whether or not he passed his exams. Gar found something… idealistic… in that—something wonderful to be coveted and striven for but never truly achieved; not by orphaned green metahumans with shady backgrounds and questionable futures.

To Garfield Logan, Dick Grayson was the other side of the fence, and there was something inherently innocent, even _precious_, about that. It's the Dick Graysons of the world that suffered for the deeds of evil men—like the ones that killed his aerialist parents. And it was the Dick Graysons of the world that needed to be protected from that evil, by the Garfield Logans who were granted power enough to oppose that evil. Dick Grayson had come out of his tragedies perfectly, _wonderfully_ normal, and as Garfield stared at him—laughed with him and planned parties with him, he suddenly understood why people like Batman, Robin, and Batgirl don masks and capes every night and play at heroism. They do it for the Dick Graysons of their city—for the people who have suffered under the boot of evil men and strive despite tragedy to continue on with their honest, decent, _beautifully normal_ lives. In that moment, Garfield finally understood. Heroism isn't about punishing villains and stopping evils. It's about the people who make such efforts worthwhile… people like Dick Grayson.

"Well it was great seeing you, Dude," Gar said, still smiling and somehow lighter than he was a moment before. "I'll bet you wanna go relax and stuff."

Dick nodded gratefully. "A nap," he replied. "A nice, long nap..."

Garfield lightly laughed. "Well I won't keep you then. Catch you later, dude."

They waved at each other then, and passed in the hallway, continuing on to their respective destinations. They each keyed into their respective rooms at the same time and symmetrically disappeared from view.

Once in his room, Gar tossed his towel and shower equipment aside. He stripped of the bathrobe and pulled the first matching set of clean clothes from his closet that he could find. Then he slipped his green feet back into his flip-flops and ran his fingers through his shaggy green hair one last time before grabbing his keys and dashing from his room again.

Garfield jogged back down the hallway towards the other end and skidded to a stop when Dick's door was on his right and Raven's was on his left. Then he paused for a moment, taking a few deep breaths and working up his courage. He stood staring at the pristine whiteness of Dick's message board for an elongated breath, and for the very first time in his brief, rather tragic life, he felt absolutely certain of something. Using his metahuman talents against Two-Face, that had been personal, the motivations selfish. Now those thoughts were far from his mind as he stood in that hallway, on the precipice of greatness, feeling purposeful and, perhaps for the very first time, hopeful.

Garfield swallowed, steeled his resolve, and knocked on Raven's door.

* * *

Dick turned as he shut the door, allowing its frame to support his weight. He leaned into it, his head resting just below the smiling faces of his parents on the promotional poster. He sighed heavily, tiredly, and tried to force his mind into submission. He didn't want to think right now. He just wanted sleep.

"How'd your tests go?"

Dick gasped and spun around, instantly falling into a defensive stance before his eyes nearly bugged out of his head at the sight of who had illegally entered his dorm room. The shock was too much for his tired brain to process and Dick stumbled back into the door, barely managing to catch himself with an iron grip on the doorknob. Then breathlessly he rasped:

"B—Barbara!"

Barbara Gordon sat in his desk chair, which was spun around and facing the door. She smiled congenially up at him as he struggled to force his legs to support his weight again. When at last he stood up straight Barbara reached down to her feet and grabbed an unopened can of soda, which she tossed his way. Dick saw her grin turn feral as he juggled to catch it.

"We need to talk," she announced in the same tone she'd used to order a much younger Dick Grayson to bed on those long-ago evening when Bruce would invite her over as a playmate/babysitter when both he and Alfred would be busy with the same socialite events in the manor that her father was forced to attend.

"Barbara—"

Whatever he had intended to say, the redhead would have none of it. She stood from the chair, frowning at him with her hands poised angrily on her hips.

"_Now_, Short Pants!"


	17. Come together

**Three days later**

Victor Stone was tinkering with some electronic device on a workbench in his bedroom-turned-lab when he heard a scratching sound at one of the windows. He turned to see a petit green squirrel sitting on his window ledge, scratching at the glass. Victor couldn't help but chuckle as he stood from the bench and walked over. He grinned at Garfield for an elongated moment before letting his friend in.

Gar jumped through the opened window and transformed back into a human. "Dude, were you just gonna leave me sitting out there all day?" the shape-shifter asked in amused incredulousness.

"No, but the look on your squirrely face was worth it."

"Humph. I'll bet."

Whatever laughter existed between them died a slow, agonizing death, consumed by the descending silence that grew with the realization that neither knew what exactly to say. The two friends had seemed ill at ease with each other these past few days, and hadn't been associating at all outside of class until today and Garfield's sudden visit.

"I've done a lot of talking" Gar said suddenly, cutting through the silence by being direct. "W—With Raven."

Victor nodded heavily, his head staying down. His shoulders sagged some with the gesture, signaling that he knew that the ensuing conversation was going to be about.

"She's… really powerful," Gar confessed, as though it were some prized secret. "If she knows what to look for, she can track anybody. Using just her mind—like Professor X but without Cerebro."

"So the girl's a mental bloodhound," Victor agreed dismissively. "So what?"

"Well, uh, you see," Gar stammered uneasily. "We were thinking about—er, we _are_—going to have her, ah, use her powers to—to find Robin."

Victor blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Vic," said Gar firmly yet quietly. He briefly dropped his gaze to his shoes before looking up into the half-cybernetic face of his friend again. "We… we want to talk to Robin."

"About what?" Victor asked, already having a guess.

Garfield seemed to take his time. His friend's apparent reluctance wasn't making this any easier. Once again he was reminded of Raven's question, and wondered what—if anything—Victor was afraid of.

"We've talked it out—Raven and me. And, well, we wanna be heroes, Vic. We want to ask Robin to teach us how to be heroes."

"Heroes?" Victor balked before he could help himself. "What? Like, become Titans or something?"

"The Titans don't exist anymore, dude," Garfield informed his friend. "They've all gone back to being sidekicks again. Me and Raven, we're nobody's sidekicks, but I doubt Robin will reform the Titans just for us."

"Yeah, and?" Victor prompted. "Don't tell me you and Raven are gonna team up by yourselves or something…"

Garfield winced. "I don't know what Raven's deal is," he confessed. "I decided to take a chance, and I asked her what she thought about me using my, er, _gifts_, for the greater good. She seemed… surprisingly enthusiastic about it—I mean, she actually _listened_ when I brought it up, as opposed to ignoring me or telling me to go screw. She actually told me that—that it was a noble thing, what I wanted. That it—takes courage, n'all that. And I think I… impressed her, a lot… by having the balls to ask her."

"Okay," Victor conceded. "Yay you. That don't explain why she wants to go all vigilante, too. I mean, no offense man, but she doesn't really strike me as the type to—"

"To what, Vic?" Gar cut his friend off, slightly peeved. "The only reason she even went to the museum in the first place was cuz she thought I was in trouble. And then she stayed there, long enough to help. She healed that guard you know—the one that was shot in the stomach? And then she got us outta there, without having to deal with the cops or the Bat crew or anything. She may be able to, like, give Mr. Freeze lessons in being cold n'all, but I think, under all that ice-princess persona she's got that secretly… secretly, she just wants to help people, too."

"So she didn't give you a reason?" Victor asked, his tone more curious now than anything else.

"I—" Garfield cut himself off, suddenly unsure. He dropped his gaze to the floor again, if only momentarily, and Victor had his answer. "Now that I think of it, she did more listening than talking, dude. She's like, freakin' Counselor Troi or something—if you can get her interested enough to stop giving you the brush-off and actually _listen_ to you. And… I dunno Vic, maybe she just wants to do some good or something, or maybe… maybe she's like me, and kinda sorta feels, I dunno, obligated to use her powers for good. But whatever, dude. She was the one who suggested finding Robin, and _she_ was the one who said she'd do it. And she never said she was doing it for me, dude. She kept saying 'we.'"

Victor sighed, palming a hand down the human side of his face. "So you're seriously gonna go through with this?"

Garfield nodded. "Yeah, Vic. I am." Then he fidgeted nervously. "And I want you to think about it, dude."

Victor's eyes widened but Garfield cut him off.

"I'm serious," he defended. "I know what Raven said, and it all sounded like a load of BS to me. You came to the museum to find me, and then stayed even after you knew what I was planning to do. And even after we had our first brush with death and then freed the guards—you could have left then, but you didn't. You stayed for me, Vic. Right up to the end. And I don't care what Raven said; that took guts dude. I don't know _what_ she thinks you're afraid of, but it's all crap to me."

Garfield was so emphatic and so sincere that Victor had to take a step back.

"Look, Gar," he began, raising his hands in surrender.

"No Vic," Garfield interrupted. "Please, just—just listen, okay? You took those two goons we faced to the woodshed, dude. And then it was _you_ who got us into the control room, and _you_ who freed the guards first. You were even the one to think of using the fire alarm as a way of protecting the exhibit and what did _I_ do the whole time? Run around nearly getting shot and blown to bits. My efforts would have been one huge freakin' disaster dude if you hadn't-a been there with me."

Garfield blinked, pushing himself forward in the face of insecurity. This was too important to chicken out of.

"You and me, we made a good team back there. And even though I was the one cheering us on and everything… it was your show, dude. All the way. I _know_ you'd make an excellent hero, Vic, and it's not because your dad turned you into a chrome-colored Darth Vader or nothing. It's because of who you are, Vic. Not—not what you are."

Garfield ran his hand over the back of his neck and seemed to intently study the Linoleum of Victor's floor. His cheeks flushed slightly from embarrassment and his green skin only did a passing job of hiding it.

An uncomfortable silence descended, now that Gar had finished speaking. The green shape-shifter seemed to be waiting on Victor, but the cybernetic teen was too taken aback to be able to vocalize anything of the myriad of thoughts suddenly swirling in his brain.

"Listen, Vic," Garfield spoke at length, cutting into Victor's maddening train of thought. "Raven and I are gonna be on the roof of the Drake building in Midtown tonight at midnight. Raven's gonna see if she can get Robin to go there—she's pretty sure she can do it. Hopefully he'll at least listen to us—really it'll all depend on what he says and if he even shows up. But… that's where we'll be, dude. And I'd… really like it… if you were there too, Vic. Not just cuz it would be totally awesome to have my best buddy at my side—which it so totally would be; but because—at least I think, Vic—that you'd be good. A good hero. So please… just think about it, okay?"

Victor sighed. What else could he do? "No promises," he muttered, defeated, needing to say _something_ to placate his friend.

"I never ask for promises, dude," Gar returned quite seriously. "The roof of the Drake building. Midnight," he reiterated. Then he nodded once, turned into a green sparrow, and flew back out the window.

Victor stood staring after his best friend for a long moment. Then he turned his head and sought out the clock on the wall. It was only 2:17 in the afternoon.

* * *

**Gotham  
10:30 p.m.**

Police Commissioner James Gordon stood on the roof of police headquarters, absently studying the skyline. Soon enough he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, signaling that he was no longer alone on the rooftop. He sighed, feeling his body tense automatically. Even familiarity can't undo years of military training and police habit, though for some reason today he chose to remain like that, and didn't turn around to ascertain the whereabouts of his invited guest.

"We've arrested a few vagrants today who swear on their mothers' graves that they've seen Croc down along the river," Gordon informed the darkness. "Down by the abandoned textile mill that the Penguin was using as a distribution center—until very recently."

Now the Batman strode purposely from the shadows. He had cleaned out the mill two weeks ago, turning up an entire array of stolen property, from estate jewelry to firearms waiting for resale by the Penguin's network. Grudgingly he had to admit that he wouldn't have found the location so soon without Batgirl's help, because it was her computer skills that unearthed the clues while he was too busy trying to track down the kidnapped daughter of a Gotham Knight's player to spend much time in the cave.

"I'll look into it," Batman vowed tonelessly, turning to go.

Gordon nodded absently as he switched off the overgrown nightlight that had summoned the Cape Crusader.

"Oh and incidentally," he segued. "My friend in New York has given me a detailed report of the museum case."

That stopped the Dark Knight in his tracks. He turned back around, and now finally he and Gordon stood face to face.

"Though I must admit I'm a little hurt that you didn't contact me first," Gordon admitted. "Xavier Cabrini and I have been friends since my Chicago days. Then I could have vouched for Robin from the get-go, instead of making Xavier do the legwork."

Batman's mind was racing. Xavier Cabrini: semi-retired FBI profiler and now head of the Psychology department at Hudson University and one of Dick's current professors.

"Robin sought out Cabrini on his own," Batman declared, his voice even. It was the literal truth.

Gordon was surprised by this revelation, but he covered his reaction well. "Well I suppose that makes sense," he appraised. "He would be familiar with Xavier from his work at Arkham, and a retired federal agent could at least point him in the right direction with a lesser degree of worry than one still carrying a badge and a gun."

Ever so slightly, the Batman nodded.

"Well anyway, Xavier has conferred with the agent he sent Robin to, and I've been 'officially informed' that the feds aren't going to try and apprehend the quote-unquote 'Gotham vigilant effort.'"

"Good to know." Another emotionless statement, though Gordon could somehow tell that secretly the Batman was pleased.

Then suddenly he sighed. "I'm getting breakfast with Barbara tomorrow morning—do you know she's already a senior? They just grow up so fast…"

Batman stood impassive.

Gordon seemed suddenly flustered.

"Children I mean," he clarified somewhat awkwardly. "It seems like only yesterday I accepted custody of my late-brother's daughter, and now I can't imagine my life without her in it.

Still the Batman stood, seemingly unresponsive. However, Gordon saw that he hadn't retreated back into the shadows yet—or worse, abandoned him mid-sentence. This was as attentive as Gordon has ever seen the Bat, and some quiet part of him was oddly encouraged by that.

"And it wasn't that long ago that you introduced a gangly runt of a kid in a brightly colored costume whose voice hadn't cracked yet as your partner."

Batman seemed to tense then. Gordon felt it more than he witnessed it. Yet still the Batman stayed, listening.

"When he disappeared around the holidays last year I didn't ask and you never said anything, but part of me wished that he'd hung up the cape and traded in the pixie boots for a normal life. But then he turns up in Manhattan with Batgirl and a new team of metas and completely foils Dent's plans with no damage to the exhibit and only minimal police casualties and I have to tell you, Batman, he's mightily impressed the feds—even an old cynic like Xavier. And I mean, sure, he's gone off on his own before and done some wonderful things with those Titan friends of his, but the small time crime they've helped to thwart is nothing compared to a well-played scheme of Harvey Two-Face Dent and if you had told me you were planning on letting Robin tackle the bulk of this one solo I would have had cause to finally chuck your masked hide into Arkham." Gordon's ramble suddenly stopped, and he sighed again, looking older than Batman could ever remember the man seeming.

"Since day one that kid has done nothing but prove that he's made for that kind of life—cut from the same cape you are," Gordon continued seriously, daring to address the Batman for once as a man in a suit and not an incarnation of fear personified. "You called Robin your partner, the world saw him as your apprentice, but—" Gordon faltered tripping mentally over his words. It wasn't often that the Batman had given him license to carry on like this—especially about something so… close to home.

"You should be proud of him," the commissioner said at last. "The little kid in bright colors has grown up into a force to be reckoned with, and as his mentor… you should be proud of him."

Gordon finished his speech, and all the while the Batman had stood by, silently and impassively listening to every word the police commissioner had to say. It was no secret that he held a soft spot for the Boy Wonder—along with every other Gotham City cop who was also a father. And yet, the Boy Wonder was a lot less 'Boy' and a lot more 'Wonder' now. He had grown up, and it seemed that now even Batman had acknowledged it.

The commissioner watched as his associate—his _friend_—quietly absorbed what was spoken to him. Then abruptly he turned to go, firing a jump line off into the night. Gordon blinked and thought he had imagined it, but it looked as though the edges of Batman's habitually stern mouth had tipped upwards slightly into the faintest of smiles.

"From one father to another…" Gordon said to the empty rooftop.

* * *

**Long Island  
10:45 p.m.**

"You need to get better office hours." Special Agent Hernandez laughed slightly at his own joke as Robin emerged from the shadows down by the docks.

Robin simply stood there, half shadowed, silent.

"You know the Egyptian government has given both the NYPD _and _the local Bureau office official commendations?" Hernandez continued. "This must be how your buddy Gordon rose to power, by riding your boss's coattails."

"Gordon was the only clean police officer in Gotham," Robin deadpanned. "His ascension came on the coattails of the removal of corruption."

"Don't get cute with me, kid. I might not thank you for helping to jumpstart my career."

Ever so slightly… Robin smirked.

"Your help has been invaluable, agent."

"_My_ help? It was you and your team that took Dent and his henchmen down. The civil servants were just window dressing."

Robin's jaw clenched at the mention of his 'team.'

"Look—er, _Robin_," Hernandez seemed uncomfortable calling the Boy Wonder by name. "Are these little clandestine meetings going to become a habit?"

"If I need you again I'll contact you," Robin replied.

"Yeah I figured as much," said Hernandez halfheartedly.

Robin's gaze narrowed. "Just say the word, agent, and you'll never hear from me again."

"Kid, I'd like nothing more. Something tells me that if I ever hear from you again it's because the shit's going to hit the fan, again."

"I don't need an ally in law enforcement to help me clear up old speeding tickets."

"Robin, I seriously doubt you need me at all."

"Your cooperation is a luxury," Robin told him. "I could make do without it, yes, but at a detriment."

"And while helping you gave me a nice feather for my fedora," said Hernandez. "It'll be nothing like the backlash if our connection is proven."

Robin sighed inaudibly. "It's your call, agent. You know the work I do, what I'm fighting for. I'd like to think I have proven myself to you. If you fear that greatly for your career then by all means, back out now."

Hernandez snorted a laugh. "Well, you certainly know how to make a point." Then he sighed. "Aw, hell. Greater good, and all that jazz."

Robin refrained from smiling. Instead he nodded.

"Just one question though," Hernandez added. "What if I need to contact _you_?"

Robin swiftly reached into some hidden compartment of his utility belt. He removed a canary yellow electronic disk that looked like a hockey puck and tossed it to Hernandez.

"This is a one-way transmitter," Robin informed him. "Press the button and it'll send out signal. Then I'll know to contact you."

Hernandez palmed the transmitter, feeling its weight, admiring it for what it was.

"I suggest you don't activate it from your office if you fear a signal trace," Robin added in all seriousness.

Hernandez chuckled at that, still paying attention to the device. Then finally he slipped it into his pocket and looked up.

Robin had vanished.

Somewhere in the distance, a cricket chirped.

"Well," Hernandez said to no one. "_That's_ going to get annoying."

* * *

**Gotham  
****11:30 p.m.**

Batman was crouched on the roof of a small warehouse in the old garment district. If Killer Croc had gone to ground on dry land in the area, an abandoned warehouse would be the perfect spot for him to hide out in. His… _interrogation_…of some of the Penguin's known help didn't turn up anything fruitful but he doubted that Croc's apparent proximity to one of Cobblepot's operations was coincidence. So now the Bat was methodically checking out warehouses in the area, and he was just about to drop in through the skylight of this one when he heard a noise behind him.

"You still haven't improved your stealth," he said through a grimace.

"Hey, how did you know—"

The Batman suddenly stood from his crouched position and Batgirl bit back the rest of her question. It was pointless anyway.

"Your father expects you to be up early tomorrow," Batman said, turning slowly around to come face to face with Batgirl.

She didn't bother to ask how he knew that, too.

"We need to talk," she said sternly instead.

The Batman stood impassive.

"Look, you've been avoiding me for _three days_ now!" Batgirl accused angrily. "If you have a problem with me that's not a good way to make it go away."

Batman's eyes narrowed menacingly. "I'm listening," he said, making the words sound more like a threat than anything else.

Batgirl sighed in frustration. "You've been a real hardass lately, you know that? One minute you're giving me an impromptu fighting lesson on some random rooftop and the next you're treating me like some stupid kid in a Halloween costume. I know that in the beginning you didn't like me much, but I like to think that I've proven myself to you, at least in _some_ ways. Why else would you be spending the time to teach me proper batarang technique instead of telling my father all about my little after-school job? Now that Robin's in New York for the duration I want you to be straight with me for once. Either let me be your partner or tell me to go screw, but for the love of God _tell me_ how it's going to be."

The Batman stood stonily silent. Batgirl felt that he was staring through her almost, and yet at the same time, his Starlite gaze was oddly vacant.

"Cripes, it's like talking to the bloody wall!" Batgirl exclaimed angrily. "If I didn't know better I'd say that _this_ shit is what pissed Robin off the most."

Batman's eyes narrowed again. "What do you want, Batgirl?"

"Oh ferchrissakes!" She fumed, stomping a foot and turning aside. "Typical Bat, never answering a question. You wanna know what I want? Well listen chucko, I'll tell ya. I want you and your goddamn boys club to start taking me seriously. I want to make a difference in this God-forsaken city of ours. I want to put the damned unreachable criminals behind bars so that my father can sleep better at night. I know I'm not as good as Robin, and I don't want to take his place exactly, but I want you to _teach me how_. Dammit, Batman, I want you to make me your _Goddamn partner!_"

Batgirl's Irish temper had run away with her, but the Batman stood unaffected. He was silent in the wake of her tirade, and Batgirl could feel his coldly scrutinizing gaze and knew that he was sizing her up.

"Robin trained for three years before he was allowed to patrol the streets," Batman stoically informed after a time. "And even then, there were times when he was not allowed out of the Cave. My subordinates need to be good soldiers. I need to trust that under any circumstance, my orders are obeyed. Without that trust, there is no partnership."

Batgirl's eyes hardened. "And you don't think I can follow orders?"

Batman was silent.

For a moment Batgirl wavered, her memory of charging blindly into the museum—almost to disaster, leapt to the forefront of her mind. Robin had ordered her to stay out…

"That's all nice and black and white, Batsy," Batgirl said at length, "but do you have any idea how the trust in a chain of command is built? Your orders are only followed if your so-called soldiers trust your judgment, and they can't trust your judgment if they don't first trust _you_. And you of all people should know that trust has to be given before it's earned—you had to trust my father first, before you expected him to trust you back. Or don't you remember."

Batman remained infuriatingly silent.

"Look," Batgirl tried again. "I may not know all of what happened between you and Robin—"

"That's none of your business," Batman interrupted firmly, surprising her with the cold vehemence of the even more surprising interjection.

"You're right," Batgirl conceded, "it's not. But I'm not Robin. And I think maybe you need to remember that, or something. So you and he had a falling out, sucks but it happens. Well I'm still here, and—despite what _charming_ company you've been, I _still_ want to be your partner. I'm not Robin, I'm _Batgirl_. Give me a chance. I won't let you down."

Batman was silent for many moments. Soon Batgirl's impatience grew to hesitancy, and then almost into fear as the minutes stretched by. Batman was making some sort of assessment—that much was obvious. He was trying to decide whether or not to accept her, and Batgirl felt butterflies grow in her stomach the likes of which she hasn't seen since her first inter-city gymnastics meet.

Then finally, at long last, Batman came to a decision. "Killer Croc has been spotted in the area. We need to ascertain whether or not he using any of these abandoned warehouses as a safe house."

Batgirl's sudden smile could have shamed the sun. It took all of her poise not to forget herself and whoop for joy there on the rooftop. As it is, she trotted over to the Dark Knight with nothing but eager anticipation—and gratitude—shining in her bright green eyes.

"We'll need to get you a new cowl," Batman said. "You eyes give too much away."

Batgirl's grin faltered slightly and she bit her lip. She remembered all too well the looks that Robin had given her that night, and the look that Batman had shared with his former partner, and she thought of all the sudden implications of hiding one's eyes behind those cold, sterile white lenses. But if eyes are the window to the soul… perhaps it is the soul that needs such protection.

Yet Barbara has seen both of their eyes, and knew then that the mask that Batman wore in the daytime was even more effective than the one he used at night.

"Yeah," she simpered. "Sure thing boss."

Batman then turned and crouched next to the skylight, with Batgirl dropping to a knee down beside him.

"Do you think, this time, you'll let me see how to get to the cave?" she asked tentatively, not wanting to push her luck but at the same time needing to ask.

"Don't push it," Batman gruffly replied.

Batgirl couldn't help the smirk. "I don't see what the big deal is," she confessed. "After all, I've already seen the rest of the house anyway."

* * *

**Manhattan  
****12:17 a.m.**

Raven was hovering somewhere behind where Garfield sat cross-legged on the roof of the Drake building. He could hear the monotonous drone of her nonsensical chanting but had long since tuned it out, preferring the company of his own thoughts to Raven's repetitive gibberish. Before she started she had told him that she was going to try to find Robin through the astral plane the same way she'd found both him and Victor just days ago. Now there was nothing to do but wait to the lulling sound of Raven's meditative chanting as it droned on as the minutes slowly ticked by.

Meanwhile, behind him…

"Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…"

Raven's soul self was flying high above Manhattan, hoping that this island was now the Boy Wonder's stomping ground.

"Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…"

She chose midtown because her search could fan out across New York like the ripples thrown from a stone tossed in water.

"Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…"

With the Drake Building as the effective epicenter, Raven was scanning the astral plane for that familiar psychic signature. She had touched it once before, a bit more intimately than she had ever felt another mind without consent. Raven hoped to track its echo back to the source.

"Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…"

She was confident that she could do this, with Robin's psychic footprint still imprinted on her mind. Her third eye sought that familiarity and she would not accept the possibility of failure.

There was simply too much at stake.

"Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…"

Then suddenly:

**FLASH!**

A rain-slick street.

Potholed.

Dimly lit.

_Gasp!_

**FLASH!**

Six shadows.

Seven.

Eight.

_Nine!_

**FLASH!**

A spike of fear.

Moans of desire.

Jagged, staccato laughter, cut short by—

**FLASH!**

Raven's eyes snapped open, burning molten pewter for half a second before she collapsed back down to her knees on the rooftop, gasping, panting, breathless. Desperately she groped through her mind, trying to snatch the final clue almost out of thin air.

"Raven?"

The gothic sorceress started at the sound of her name. Her head snapped around and she saw Garfield hovering nearby, curious and concerned.

"He's… he's in an alley," Raven managed.

"Who? Robin?"

Raven nodded. "He's not alone."

"Batgirl?"

Raven shook her head. "Trouble."

Garfield dropped to a knee beside her. "Can you find him again, Raven?" he asked, gently yet desperate.

Raven swallowed thickly and then nodded. She took a deep, calming breath and the tremors she didn't even notice faded away. Raven shoved herself back into a lotus position while Garfield knelt close by. She shut her amethyst eyes and eased herself back into a meditative state.

"Azarath… Metrion… Xinthos…"

Her third eye zeroed back in on the sudden flame of Robin's familiar determination.

It wasn't hard to find.

_A flash of burning yellow across her vision… a flickering street lamp, momentarily illuminating a sign…_

Raven sat back and opened her eyes again. She saw Gar's expectant face regarding her intently.

"He's uptown," she said, her voice once again its usual, toneless self. "Harlem."

Garfield gulped. "And there's trouble?" he squeaked.

"I can take us there," Raven deadpanned, standing.

Garfield scrambled to his feet as well. He was just about to open his mouth to reply when—

"Yo!"

Both he and Raven jumped at the sudden voice. They turned on their heels and as one sighed in relief to see Victor now hurrying across the roof from the access door.

"You guys are still here," he said when he reached them. "Good."

Garfield was grinning from ear to ear. "DUDE! You came!"

Victor sighed. "I'm here," he said, as though he were confessing to a terrible crime.

"So are you, like, gonna join us?" Gar asked, his voice shining with innocent hope.

"I have one question," said Victor by way of answer. Then he turned to Raven. "Why?"

The sorceress blinked.

"I think I got _him_ figured out," Victor clarified, pointing at Gar. "What about you?"

"What about me?" Raven echoed flatly.

"Why are you here? What do you want from all of this—what are you out to gain by it?"

Raven blinked slowly, and it seemed as though her amethyst eyes stared through him. Victor shifted nervously despite himself and Garfield looked on in wonder.

"This world is rife with evil," Raven answered at last. "I can feel it. It pulses through this dimension like white noise. Always there, but always ignored. And the trend is… it's growing louder. Your imperceptive population continues about its business while evil is stirring, biding its time… gathering strength. In time it will grow too large to be ignored, but by then it will be too late. Like a shift in the tide… this is unavoidable, yet predictable, and as such… I cannot simply sit back and watch. When the tide inevitably comes in… I want to stand with those who batten down the hatches… intending to brave the storm."

Silence.

Both Garfield and Victor blinked. Then finally:

"Whoa, girl. Yoda says 'metaphors be with you.'"

Raven's eyes narrowed as Garfield chuckled ashamedly at Victor's observation.

"Ahem…" Victor tried again, running a hand over his bald half-human head. "And you're both serious about this?"

Raven was silent.

"Totally, dude," Garfield said seriously. "It's a party for the greater good, and everyone's invited."

"We should go," Raven interjected.

"Go? Go where?"

"Dude, Raven's gonna take us to Robin. He's kicking butt in an alley in Harlem right now."

Ever so slowly a smile came to Victor's face, and Raven sensed that it came from somewhere between quiet amusement and utter resignation.

"My mother was from Harlem," he said quietly to no one.

Garfield hesitantly stepped forward, his eyes wide and bright with hope. Hidden from view, Raven smiled, slight but warm.

"Come with us, Vic," Gar entreated. "Come be a hero."

A silence seemed to stretch into eternity. Victor's thoughts were of his mother. The scent of her perfume, the slightness of her laughter, the furrow in her brow she always seemed to wear when pouring over technical manuscripts at the dinner table… Everything his mother was.

Everything his mother should still be.

All he has left of her is memory, perfectly preserved inside a flawless cybernetic brain, which would forever echo with the sound of her final scream. His beautiful mother, whom he briefly followed to the grave, before returning to the world an electronic Frankenstein.

Victor had lived his cybernetic years regretting his life, angry for his father's interference and bitter towards his need to live—needed because it's the last thing his mother had ever wanted. His mother had died so that he could live… as a cyborg… an extraordinary feat of biomechanical engineering.

To strive for something extraordinary—that's what Gar had said. To find a purpose for his illness in the greater good—Gar's _raison d'etre_. But to find a purpose in the accident—in his mother's death? That such could have happened for the greater good?

_He should be asking you… what are you afraid of?_

Victor knew the answer.

He also knew exactly what his mother would say to that.

The smile fled, chased away by a hardened, serious expression.

"I doubt she'd like a bunch a punks messing up her town."

Gar smiled wide enough for the both of them. "DUDE!"

By the time their gazes returned to her, Raven's face was expressionless again. "Come," she said. "We may be needed."

A black sphere of obsidian billowed out from Raven's center, enveloped the trio, pinched in at the center and grew long as the top half elongated into wings stretched heavenward.

_SKREEE!_

And the three young heroes vanished.

* * *

**Harlem**

A woman was walking home from yet another late shift at the hospital. It was next to impossible to find a cab at this time of night in this neighborhood, and it was only seven blocks to her apartment. Four if she took the shortcut between the RMV and the old Methodist church.

Tonight she was just tired enough to test her luck.

Much to the delight of the local hoodlums that tried to call themselves a gang.

"Oh, you don't want to go _that_ way," a voice called out from behind her.

The woman started and turned around. There were four shapes slinking out of the shadows into the guttering glow of the streetlamp.

"That's a dangerous road ahead," the voice continued.

His companions sniggered breathily. One of them licked his lips.

"You'd be safer to come back this way, with us."

The woman shrieked and spun around, hoping to make a mad sprint in three-inch heels down to the other end of the alley to supposed safety. She'd made it all of four steps before three more shadows drifted into the light ahead of her, blocking her path.

"We told you so," the voice called out from behind her.

More chilling laughter.

"Now you got to pay the price."

The woman trembled. She tried to scream but her voice was gone.

The seven gang-bangers closed into a circle around her, feral gleams in their eyes and hideous, breathy laughter parting their lips like hyenas getting ready to pounce.

"I don't think the lady wants to play."

Everyone gasped, startled. Heads snapped around to the source of the voice and saw a shadowed figure standing on the roof of the RMV.

Several thugs looked up. "The hell?"

The shadow stepped into the pale, faltering light. The red of his costume was a deep vermilion in the yellowish glow. His cape billowed slightly in some unseen breeze and seemed to cling to his shoulders like the shadows themselves. His head drifted down until his gaze burned them from behind narrowed Starlite lenses.

He scowled. "Let her go. _Now_."

The gang laughed, albeit nervously. The woman managed a quiet whimper.

Nobody moved.

Then suddenly Robin dove into action—literally. He tensed his legs and took a swan dive off the roof of the RMV. The crowd below was too stunned to react as Robin's outstretched hands connected with the lamp pole. He used his momentum to swing himself around, straight into the loose circle of thugs. They collectively gasped and scrambled to move out of the way as the woman shrieked and ducked.

Robin landed, rolled to a knee, and shot to his feet, a birdarang clutched firmly in each fist. Four of the thugs had darted to safety, inadvertently giving him room to stand protectively by the woman, who was on her knees and clutching her purse firmly to her chest.

The other three were on the ground by Robin's feet.

"Do you live far?" Robin asked the woman.

Still petrified, she didn't answer him.

"Ma'am?"

"Huh?" She started. Then she blinked, finally processing his question. "N-no," she stammered. "B-b-block and a h-half."

"Run home," Robin directed sternly. "Now. Call the police."

The woman hesitated, but soon scrambled to her feet. She glanced around—lost sight of the other four thugs but duly noted the three on the ground. Two were out cold, but one was starting to stir…

"You ain't goin' nowhere, pal," one of the other four called out from the darkness. He and his buddies had regrouped. Three were sporting knives and one had found a lead pipe.

Robin's eyes narrowed menacingly. "You _so _don't want to go there, _pal_," he spat the word back at the thug.

More breathy laughter. Teeth flashed through feral grins.

* * *

Garfield was weightless, floating. Free. The inside of the obsidian void was a kaleidoscope of shimmering colors. He couldn't feel his body and was completely unaware of where Raven and Victor were. Somehow he felt that they were right beside him, but since he didn't exactly have the capacity for feeling right now he might have wondered at how he managed that, if he wasn't so enamored with the changing hues of this pocket reality.

Sound rose in crescendo with the cascade of color, each one swirling to a different beat. Laughter, disjointed shouts, stray sobs, eerie whispers, all coming from the colors as though they were one and the same.

Then finally a jolt. The colors flashed to blinding white in a momentary vacuum of silence. Suddenly Gar was aware again of the ground beneath his feet as the white snapped to obsidian again, and the vacuum was ruptured by an intruding voice.

_There's four of us and one of you. You're gonna wish you'd a minded your business._

**FLASH!**

* * *

An obsidian sphere suddenly formed, expanded, and burst like a reverse nova. A gust of supernatural wind and Raven was suddenly standing beside Robin, with Garfield and Victor flanking. The thugs gasped and the woman shrieked and hid herself in Robin's cape the way a four-year-old finds his mother's skirt.

Robin ignored her, his entire frame seeming to pulse with tension.

Then Garfield stepped forward with as much menace as his petit green form could muster.

"Oh yeah? Well now it's four on four, dude."

The thugs scoffed in disbelief and Victor suddenly strode forward to stand next to Garfield. He smacked a fist into his palm as he surged his power cells, glowing his cybernetics a hot, electric blue.

"You punks gonna bring it on, or what?" he spat at them.

The four thugs snarled and raised their weapons, shouting a din of obscenities as they charged.

Garfield transformed into a roaring lion and leapt protectively in front of the woman.

As the lion landed, Robin vaulted into the air out from behind its cover. Two birdarangs flew, knocking two switchblades out of two separate hands.

Raven's eyes flashed hot gray and a supernatural wind kicked at her hair as black tendrils of telekinesis shot forward and ripped a machete away from the thug holding it.

The swinging lead pipe was caught easily in one of Victor's hands. He frowned at the thug, dilated a red glowing eye, and crushed the pipe until it snapped in half. The top portion fell to the ground with a hollow THUNK just ahead of its lower half, which the thug dropped when his bowels released. He gulped and staggered back.

The lion growled.

Raven's eyes continued to burn as the supernatural wind swirled about her.

Victor folded his arms and glared, his cybernetics still glowing.

And Robin stood just ahead of them, cape catching the tails of Raven's breeze. His mouth was pursed into a thin line as his gaze bore down on the cowering criminals. His eyes narrowed threateningly in his mask.

"Go home," he commanded, in a voice that allowed no arguments. "And don't cause trouble again."

The thugs yelped and tripped over themselves, unable to get away fast enough, leaving their two unconscious brethren behind.

When they were gone, Garfield turned back into a human. He smiled congenially at the woman, who was still crouched on the pavement, and offered her a hand. Blinking, unsteadily, the woman accepted the help to her feet. Finally she was standing again.

"Are you okay?" Gar asked, his voice soft with concern. Behind him Raven stood, the wind gone and her eyes again frozen amethyst. She stood passively beside Victor, whose arms were still folded though his cybernetics were no longer glowing.

Robin stood like a statue. Cold, expressionless, observing…

"Y-yes," the woman stammered finally. "I-I think so."

Garfield smiled warmly at her.

"You should be more careful about where you walk alone," said Victor, striding forward to stand beside Garfield. The woman cowered slightly and Gar, glancing between the two of them, looked stricken. But Victor forced a smile and spoke through his teeth: "There ain't no safe roads anymore."

The woman seemed to recover more. The rest of her fear melted away. She managed a weak smile for her rescuers.

"Thank you," she said earnestly, her voice at last steady. She looked unblinkingly into Victor's soft brown and harsh red eyes. Ever so slightly, his smile turned genuine.

The woman then turned her gaze outwards, catching Raven's eyes and Robin's mask. She nodded at them. Then she flashed a shaky smile, nodded again, and turned on her heels and fled back down the alley.

Garfield and Victor followed her progress until she disappeared from view, each only half paying attention as they were simultaneously lost in a sea of their own thoughts. When they finally returned to the moment they turned back around and saw Raven and Robin, standing maybe ten feet apart and facing each other with mirroring expressions of passivity. The two boys found themselves unconsciously holding their breath.

"Robin," Raven spoke at last, more acknowledgement than greeting. "The Boy Wonder."

"You were at the museum the other night," Robin replied, his tone as fathomless as hers.

A beat.

Then Raven tipped her head, once, as if in admittance.

"You saved Batgirl," Robin added. "I… suppose I should thank you."

Raven blinked, her expression unchanging.

"We were all there that night," she said at length.

Robin's gaze flicked quickly to where Garfield and Victor stood before returning to Raven's amethyst eyes. Then it was his turn to nod.

"You were once the leader of a team of heroes," Raven stated, dispassionately informing Robin of this fact. She felt Robin tense at that, but his mind was dark, deliberately closed off with a tighter shield than even Dick had managed.

He neither confirmed nor denied her statement.

Raven continued, undaunted. "There were Titans, once. _Teen_ Titans."

"What of it?" Robin's question sounded more like a threat than anything else. Garfield unconsciously shifted closer to Victor.

Raven was unaffected.

"Train us." Not a command but a passionless entreaty. "A new team of Titans."

"Why?" A simple question; no inflection.

Garfield stepped forward now, answering: "Because we're a trio of metahumans who wanna do some good."

Robin didn't seem to acknowledge him. His eye mask stayed fixed on Raven.

"Because this world is too full of evil," Raven replied, the ice princess melting slightly. "And not enough people with the courage and the will to combat it."

"The world needs more heroes," Garfield added. "Metas like us."

Robin's focus shifted at last. Garfield shifted nervously on the balls of his feet but his he held Robin's gaze levelly. Then when Robin passed to Victor, the cybernetic teen was silent for a moment and more reserved than his friend.

"We all figured that you could teach us how to do the right thing," he muttered dismissively.

"You know how to combat evil," Raven stated, catching Robin's attention again. "Teach us. Make us Titans."

"Because we want to help!" Garfield added.

Victor stood silent, but he nodded when Robin's gaze flickered in his direction.

Garfield's expression shone bright and hopeful. Raven stood stoically but her eyes held glimpses of that same hope, that same desire.

Robin stood staring, taking it all in, processing what was unfolding right before his eyes. Three gifted teenagers wanting to be heroes—seeking him out because they wanted to learn how to make a difference for good in this world. As Raven spoke to him he found himself believing her without question. Garfield was as transparent as a pane of glass—and quite possibly just as fragile, but he could be tempered. Robin saw the truth of that reflected in Raven's amethyst eyes, as though she was answering all of his questions before he'd even thought of them.

And Victor… Victor was searching for something. Something more than heroism or a group where he fit in. Robin gleaned that too, as well as he knew that Victor would stand beside Garfield through hell and back. Raven's eyes spoke that such loyalty could be nurtured, tapped into something more profound.

Dick Grayson stared out through the Starlite lenses of the Robin mask at the earnest upturned faces of his friends. He already knew their worth and found now that his assessments were justified. They were his friends and Raven's fathomless eyes spoke of the heroes they could become, if he would only show them the way.

Robin's hard, unforgiving countenance seemed to slowly retreat back into itself. Without really changing, the Boy Wonder revealed more of the boy, melting more into a human being before their eyes in the same fashion that Garfield and Victor had observed from Raven.

"So," he said with a slight smirk. "You want to be Titans?"

_fin _

* * *

AN-This series is continued in the story _Beginnings_.  



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